


God Forgive Us All

by deepestfathoms



Category: Six - Marlow/Moss
Genre: Abuse, Adults Bullying A Child, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst and Feels, Anne is a sweetheart, Author Is Not Religious, Blood, Blood and Gore, Bullying, Cathy is a good girlfriend, Child Abuse, Death, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Fire, Gaslighting, Gen, Harassment, Heathers: The Musical References, Heavy Angst, Jane Seymour Is A Piece Of Shit, Kitty is a highkey brat, Maggie is a shit-stirrer, Menstruation, Mental Instability, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Open to Interpretation, Psychic Abilities, Public Humiliation, Religion, Religious Discussion, Religious Guilt, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Social Anxiety, Soft Catherine of Aragon, Sorry Not Sorry, Stuttering, Touch-Starved, Unflattering Depictions of Religious Characters, because they DO put on heathers, she and her goons literally have zero redeeming qualities
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:48:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 33,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24632575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deepestfathoms/pseuds/deepestfathoms
Summary: The girl, completely naked, was stumbling to a group of women with a horrified look on her face. She reached a desperate hand out to Cathy, leaving a red stain smeared against the woman’s blue blouse, and clung on for dear life.“Help me!” She cried again. “Help me! S-something’s wrong!”Cathy immediately recoiled in shock, causing the girl to stumble backwards clumsily. Everyone looked down at the handprint stained in crimson on her shirt. Jane gave her an evil look.“What the fuck!” She roared. “Her shirt!”“What is WRONG with you?” Maggie said.“Some kind of freak seizure?” Kitty guessed.And then they all noticed the trails of red running down the girl’s inner thighs.“I-I’m bleeding!” She whimpered.OR:Carrie AU
Relationships: Anne Boleyn/Catherine Parr, Katherine Howard & Jane Seymour
Comments: 9
Kudos: 46





	1. And Eve Was Weak

You never really do get used to the heat of stage lights. Even after four years in theater, Anne never grew a resistance to the sweltering heat and blindingly bright lights that beamed down on the stage when performing. By the end of a mere rehearsal, her forehead was dotted with sweat and her green earrings gifted to her by her girlfriend felt like twin pieces of the sun blazing against her skull.

“Alright, everyone,” The stage manager, a bold, powerful woman named Catalina de Aragon, boomed. “That’s good for today! You all did wonderful!”

Several sighs of relief swept through the stage. The group of actresses either doubled over or put their hands behind their heads and took deep breaths. Eight-hour-long rehearsals like that always wrung them dry, but Aragon wanted to keep them sharp, and it did, even if it was exhausting.

“If you think this is bad,” Aragon said with a teasing smile, “just wait until our live TV debut. Now THOSE lights will fry you to the bone.”

There was a scattering of grins and giggles. Despite the heat from the lights, they were all excited for the upcoming TV performance of their musical, Heathers, in which Anne proudly played Heather Duke.

“Just wait until you get to be in that trench coat,” A voice said to her left.

She turned to see Jane Seymour, their Veronica Sawyer, grinning toothily at Cathy Parr, who also doubled as their incredibly talented, incredibly wonderful, and incredibly beautiful Jason Dean. Though, Anne may be a bit biased. She was dating her, after all.

“Oh, don’t remind me,” Cathy said. “I’m already soaked enough.”

“Which will make Dead Girl Walking even better,” Jane tittered, earning her a playful elbow to the ribs.

“Oi!” Anne barked. “Paws off, Seymour! She’s all mine!”

“I bet you two make Dead Girl Walking really happen in bed,” Their Heather Chandler, Anna Cleves, commented while passing by. She grinned at them over her shoulder.

“Wouldn’t you like to know!” Anne fired back, making Anna chortle and Cathy whack her arm.

“Enough of that.” Cathy hissed. “Come on, let’s go take a shower. I feel all sticky.”

“Sweat does that,” Katherine Howard, or Kitty, the gremlin-like Heather McNamara, piped in helpfully. Trailing behind her was Maggie Wyatt, the Ms. Fleming. Unlike most of the others in the production, the two of them were both teenagers, with Kitty being fifteen and Maggie being seventeen, but they were absolutely brilliant when it came to acting and signing, so it was no wonder why they scored a spot in a West End show.

“Yes, thank you, Kitty. I had no idea.”

Kitty and Maggie both giggled, but their expressions simultaneously went sour all of a sudden. Kitty slowed down in her stride to huddle in between Jane and Anne, while Maggie wrinkled her nose in visible distaste. Anne didn’t even have to ask what was bothering them, she, sadly, already knew.

“Uh-oh,” Maggie muttered, “Here comes Jitterbug.”

Most people would furrow their eyebrows and look around in confusion, wondering who would possibly give their child such a weird name, but everyone in the theater was used to hearing such a title. They all knew exactly who it was referring to.

The girl was the definition of sickly- shockingly thin, with sharp jawbones, a narrow chest, and deep hollows under her startlingly silver eyes, which were as grey and shiny as the moon. She was very pale, too, like she would shrivel up and die if she so much as stood out in the sun for too long. Her head was dipped low as she passed by the group of actresses cautiously and she had her hands wrung anxiously in her wrinkled baby blue flannel shirt, which helped explain why she had a nickname like “Jitterbug”- she was always doing some sort of nervous tick, whether it being leg bouncing or straw chewing or hand flexing, and it easily became a target of mockery by other people in the theater. She always wore a cross necklace around her neck, and today it was still in the same position as it had been the day before- lying peacefully on her bony chest.

“Her name is Joan,” Anne whispered.

Joan Meutas. A pianist in the pit. Not an actress. So you would think that would make her unimportant and ignored, and yet...

“Yeah, I know,” Maggie said, not keeping her voice low. She probably wanted Joan to hear her, which wasn’t much of a surprise. “But she’s so jittery. And super weird.”

“You know that,” Kitty said, poking Anne. “Did you see her today? When it was lunchtime she prayed before she ate!”

Anne frowned and shook her head. She never really did like the treatment of the poor girl, especially when it came from so many adults and Joan was only sixteen, but she was just one person against an entire theater. What could she do?

“Hey!” A voice shouted from inside the women’s shower room. “Watch where you’re walking!”

Anne and her friends entered the showers and bathroom to find a flurry of towels and clothes and bare skin. Shampoo of lavender and pear, coconut and watermelon, honey and vanilla all mixed together into an overwhelmingly sweet odor that wafted throughout the room. It was almost as thick as the steam whirling from the many hot showers going on.

And, in the midst of all the cleaning and bathing, there was Joan “Jitterbug” Meutas, staring guiltily down at a few fallen bottles of soap she had accidentally scattered with her feet. The look plastered on her face made it seem like this little mishap was much more than a minor inconvenience to her.

“I-I’m sorry,” She whispered, although her shaking voice could barely be heard over the cacophony around her. Her natural stutter was more prominent because she was scared.

“Can’t you use those creepy eyes of yours?” The owner of the bottles, a woman old enough to probably be married, spat. “Or are you as blind as you are useless?”

Anne clenched her jaw. This lady was an adult and she was picking on this child as if it were just a simple schoolyard, playground argument. It was so wrong. So, so wrong.

“I’m sorry,” Joan said again, this time even softer, but it went unheard when Kitty suddenly jumped into the conversation eagerly.

“Did she get in trouble?” The girl asked, eyes glowing with cruel mischief. “I knew she would get in trouble if she came in here! Did you clobber her?”

“I wish,” The woman snorted. She glanced at Joan, as if considering beating the poor girl into a bloody pulp for simply knocking over her soap, but thought against it. “Don’t do it again, brat. Or I’ll have you fired.”

Joan nodded with one more shaky “I’m sorry” before shuffling over to one of the benches and sitting down. She hunched her shoulders around her neck instantly, trying to make herself as small as possible. Her hands were tightly grasping a set of neatly-folded clothes she had brought in for herself. It was so pitiful. Everyone was anxious in some way, but with Joan it ran deeper, all the way to paralyzing fear.

“I can’t believe we have to change with her,” Jane muttered. “She could do something to us. To the children!” She cast a worried look at Kitty and Maggie.

“She’s a child, too, you know,” Cathy pointed out. “Come on, ease up on her. She’s not that bad.”

Jane snorted, but left the conversation there and glided off to a shower that had just opened up, which was also the one that Joan was about to go into, causing the girl to slam herself back down onto the bench instantly. Anne looked at her girlfriend with an appraising expression. Cathy enjoying the bullying of a teenager definitely would have put a dent in their relationship.

“Thank you,” Anne said to Cathy in relief.

“You really thought I would be in on this harassment?” Cathy raised an eyebrow. “Do you have no faith in me?” She grinned teasingly at Anne.

“No, of course not!” Anne said hurriedly. “But you never know. I just worry.”

“I know you do.” Cathy pecked her on the cheek and then went to fetch fresh towels.

Anne smiled, watching her go, then noticed a twitch on Joan’s expression out of the corner of her eye. She turned her head, thinking the girl may have finally gotten angry at her treatment, but instead just saw that her expression was twinged with pain. One of her hands was gripping at her stomach. Curious and concerned, Anne stepped over to her.

“Hey,” She said softly as to not shock Joan, but she still flinched anyway. “Are you okay?”

The look she got was almost comical. It was a mix of shock and adoration, with a hint of caution flickering in Joan’s silver eyes. She blinked several times, opening and closing her mouth like a startled fish that had just been pulled out of the water, before finally stuttering out, “U-uh-huh.”

“Are you sure?” Anne slowly sat down next to Joan, slightly surprised to find that she didn’t jerk away. In fact, she swore it almost looked like Joan wanted to curl up against her and fall asleep. “You look a little hurt. Physically, I mean. I’m sure everything hurts mentally....” She trailed off awkwardly.

“M-my stomach just hurts a little,” Joan mumbled shyly. “That’s all.”

“I see.” Anne said. “Well, I hope you feel better soon, Joan.”

She gave the girl a comforting pat on the shoulder and then stood up, going over to one of the now-open showers. She hung her clothes and towel on the stall door, then stepped inside and got undressed. She cranked the shower nozzle and hot water cascaded all over her body, washing away the sticky sheen of sweat that had been caked over her skin.

It always felt nice to take a shower after a long day of rehearsals. She loved being able to get clean, finally relaxing when she was done with hours of line run throughs and dance move reciting.

Someone got into the shower next to her; she could hear the click of the lock and the splash of water sluicing under feet. When she peeked down, she saw that the toenails weren’t painted, so it couldn’t have been Kitty or Maggie. She didn’t pay much mind to discovering who her stall neighbor was, though. She just tried to relax under the warm spray of water washing her clean and soothing her sore muscles.

And then she heard the shaky gasp.

It came from her left, from the girl without her toenails painted. The noise had been so soft and subtle that Anne thought she hadn’t heard anything at all, that it was just her imagination, but then she heard it again, this time slightly louder.

A shaky gasp. A definite whimper.

She peeked down again and saw something mixing with the water. It spiraled down the drain before she could get a good look, but she merely shrugged it off as none of her business and went back to washing her hair.

Or, she tried to, at least. It was a little hard when the girl next to her suddenly let out a sharp whimper and burst out of the stall.

“H-help me!”

Was that...?

Oh god.

Anne turned off the shower, not caring that she still had shampoo in her hair, and peeked out of the stall. What she saw made her heart sink into her stomach.

Joan, completely naked, was stumbling to a group of women with a horrified look on her face. She reached a desperate hand out to Cathy, leaving a red stain smeared against the woman’s blue blouse, and clung on for dear life.

“Help me!” Joan cried again. “Help me! S-something’s wrong!”

Cathy immediately recoiled in shock, causing Joan to stumble backwards clumsily. Everyone looked down at the handprint stained in crimson on her shirt. Jane gave Joan an evil look.

“What the fuck!” She roared. “Her shirt!”

“What is WRONG with you?” Maggie said.

“Some kind of freak seizure?” Kitty guessed.

And then they all noticed the trails of red running down Joan’s inner thighs.

“I-I’m bleeding!” Joan whimpered.

“Oh my god,” Kitty exclaimed as Jane’s face twisted with nausea. Cathy paled, looking down at her ruined shirt again. “It’s period blood!”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Jane hissed.

“It’s just your period!” Maggie said in amusement to Joan at the same time. She went over to the toiletry dispenser and took out a tampon. She offered it to Joan. “Just plug it up!”

Despite the moment of kindness, Joan was far too shellshocked and confused to understand what was going on, and so she reached out to Maggie’s hand desperately, hoping for some kind of comfort. Maggie instantly reeled away with a revolted gag when some of Joan’s period blood dripped onto her fingers.

“Oh fuck!” She yelled. “I got some of her pussy juice on me!”

“Gross!” Kitty squealed.

“P-please help me!” Joan howled. “I-I’m dying!”

“How do you not know what your period is?” Kitty asked her. “Are you that stupid?”

Joan merely let out a strangled whimper. A small pool of blood has accumulated around her feet and she’s now hunched over from obvious cramps. She’s shaking so badly that it looked like she may have actually been having a seizure.

When the other women noticed that they weren’t going to get through to Joan, they all turned to a different alternative instead of trying to help her- throwing tampons and pads at the poor thing.

“PLUG IT UP! PLUG IT UP! PLUG IT UP!” The group cheered.

Joan stumbled backwards and fell to the floor. Blood smeared across her thighs and the floor, causing several women to sneer in repulsion. Kitty took her phone out and began to record the freak out.

“HELP ME!!” Joan shrieked. “P-PLEASE H-HELP ME!!”

“PLUG IT UP! PLUG IT UP! PLUG IT UP!!” The group just sang louder.

Joan began to scream and cry, collapsing onto her side and curling into a trembling ball as blood oozed out from between her thighs and she was hit with a storm of women’s toiletry items. She just kept wailing at the top of her lungs, absolutely horrified and traumatized about what was happening to her. And Anne could only watch from her shower stall as the poor child was terrorized.

“Hey! HEY!!”

The voice was booming thunder in the rain or mockery and tampons.

“Ladies! Ladies! What the hell is going on here?!”

Aragon pushed her way through mayhem to the front and set her eyes upon one of the musical’s young musicians shaking and sobbing and curled up on the tile in heap of her own blood coming from her vagina and pads and tampons. She stiffened and blinked, clearly not expecting this image of all things and definitely not having learned how to deal with it from her training to be a stage manager, but she set her jaw in determination anyway.

“Okay,” She breathed out, pushing her shock to the side. She took a tentative step forward, which was enough to make Joan flinch and flounder awkwardly in the mess around her. “Okay... It’s okay, honey. It’s okay.”

Joan didn’t seem convinced- she kept gasping and wheezing like she was having a panic attack and whimpering in distress. She huddled against one of the closed showers, trembling violently.

“Come on, stand up,” Aragon encouraged softly. “Let’s get you stand up.”

“N-no, I-I can’t!” Joan mewled. Like before, so desperate for comfort, she reached out to Aragon for help, grasping onto her yellow skirt with both bloody hands and hanging on like her life depended on it. Several of the gawkers gagged. “I can’t! I can’t!”

“Joan, come on.” Aragon tried again. If the period blood getting wiped on her skirt bothered her, she didn't show it. “Stand up. Can you stand up?”

“It hurts!” Joan wailed. Her grip on Aragon faltered and crumpled back into herself. “It hurts! It hurts! It hurts!”

Aragon, who was usually so headstrong and sure of herself, looked dumbfounded. “Honey, what’s going on? What’s wrong?”

Cathy, who had been watching silently, stepped up next to Aragon. The stage manager momentarily glanced at the stain on her shirt that matched on the ones on her skirt.

“I don’t think she knows it’s her period,” Cathy told Aragon softly.

“NO!!” Joan cried instantly. “No! No! No! No!” Her panic was building. Her shaking was getting worse.

“Cathy, leave!” Aragon snarled, glaring at the woman at her side.

“But-”

“You aren’t helping!”

Joan’s cries were getting louder and louder and more and more shrill by the second. She was practically heaving, her lanky little body jerking and spasming. She looked so much more thin without any clothes to cover her skeletal frame. Her stomach was sunken in and her ribs were slightly visible through her milky white, doughy skin.

“Joan! Joan!” Aragon shouted to the panicking girl, but nothing she said was getting through to her, so she promptly raised her hand and slapped Joan across the face.

Gasps whisked through the shower room. Joan’s screaming was cut off with a sharp, alarmed squeak. She tentatively touched her stinging cheek with a bloodied hand and then whimpered pathetically.

A light overhead exploded and shattered into millions of pieces.

There were several startled yelps as the women leapt out of the way of falling glass. A few were cut, but not badly. Aragon grit her teeth at the commotion her actresses were making.

“Everybody out!” She roared. “Right now!”

Everyone obeyed, shuffling out as quickly as they could, but not without a few final glances over their shoulder at Joan. Anne was the only one who stayed, remaining hidden in her stall, listening.

“Hey, hey,” She heard Aragon murmur in the gentlest voice she’s ever heard her use before. “Deep breaths. Come here.”

She took Joan into her arms and Joan immediately curled up like she’s never been held before in her entire life. She buried her face against Aragon’s chest, weeping softly.

“Come on, it’s okay. You’re okay, sweetie.” Aragon said gently. “It’s totally normal. You’re not in trouble. It’s okay.”

She just kept reassuring Joan again and again, cupping her head against her chest protectively and using the other hand to rub her back comfortingly. Anne watched them from her shower stall with a frown until Aragon eventually got Joan to stand up, get changed, and walk out with her. Then, she finally got to washing the rest of the shampoo out of her hair in an eerily silent shower room with a broken light and period blood spattered across the floor.

———

“Are you, uhh, feeling any better? Need some Aspirin? Some juice?”

“Juice? Really, Tony?”

The director raised his hands in a mock surrender, then peered back at the trembling girl sitting in front of him. There was a flicker of worry in his eyes, but he seemed more concerned about what this would do to his production. After all, a cast needed to be close to work best, and the actresses terrorizing one of their coworkers would definitely make things difficult to achieve that unity.

“Do you want us to just leave you alone?”

There was no reply once again. Joan was way too shellshocked to answer. Instead, she was just wrapping one of her fingers in the chain of her cross necklace and tugging on it nervously.

“Joan, honey,” Aragon knelt down in front of the chair Joan was sitting in. “I am so sorry I slapped you. I should have handled that situation better.”

Joan just stared up at her with big, sad silver eyes that looked so much like an injured lamb’s.

“You know, getting your period is totally normal.” Aragon tried to smooth her panic out. “Usually it just comes a little bit sooner.” She paused, hesitated, then quietly asked, “Is this your first time?”

Aragon wasn’t sure who looked more uncomfortable: Joan or the director. Both seemed supremely uneasy with the question, but the director was sweating awkwardly and kept trying to open his mouth to interject, only to think against it. Aragon shot him an irritated glower.

Joan herself was quiet for a long time, but eventually squeaked out, “M-my mama never t-told me about it...”

“Oh, baby...” Aragon cooed pitifully. She sat down next to Joan and set a hand on her shoulder, feeling her jump and then lean slightly into her touch. “Do you know what’s happening to your body?”

The director wiped away a bead of sweat from his brow.

“I...I thought I f-felt something m-move...down there...” Joan said softly.

The director’s eyes bulged so far out of their sockets that it was a miracle that they didn’t pop out completely.

“Honey...”

“W-well—” The director suddenly interjected. Aragon gave him a warning glare and he shuffled over to the water cooler in the room, poured himself a cup, took a drink, crushed it, and then tried again with speaking on the topic. “Maybe you could talk to a therapist! Or a nurse! At the A and E!”

Aragon looked at him as if he were crazy. He rubbed his palms against his pants and took a seat at the front desk, clearing his throat. He did his best to make himself look refined and sophisticated, but that was impossible with his lack of knowledge over a completely normal situation and from the way he kept making it even weirder than it needed to be.

“But what I want to know—” He said, attempting to steer away from the period talk. “Is who started throwing...the things.”

Aragon rolled her eyes at his behavior. She expected nothing less from men.

“It was Jane Seymour, Maggie Lee, and Katherine Howard. Then everyone else joined in.” She said.

“Julia-”

“Joan.” Aragon corrected firmly.

“Joan.” The director said again. “Did those three girls start this?”

“Don’t call them ‘girls’, Tony. One of them is a grown ass woman.” Aragon said bitterly.

“But the other two aren’t,” The director said, then turned his gaze back to Joan expectantly.

Joan opened her mouth, looked up at the director, then closed it and shrunk back in her chair. She suddenly found the floor a lot more interesting.

“Sweet pea, you don’t have to defend them.” Aragon told her. “What they did was unforgivable and awful. You won’t get in trouble for telling us the truth.”

“I-I won’t g-get f-fired?” Joan sniffled feebly.

“No, no, honey,” Aragon tucked a stray lock of wet hair behind Joan’s ear and this time she definitely felt the girl lean into her touch. “Of course you won’t. You’ll still work here.”

Joan nodded, but she still wasn’t able to speak up. She gave Aragon a deeply apologetic look and then lowered her head uselessly.

“Well, it doesn’t seem like June-”

“Joan.” Aragon snarled.

“Joan—” The director corrected himself quickly, eyeing Aragon warily, as if he were expecting her to leap over the desk and strangle him. “—is going to point any fingers, so Catalina I’m going to let you handle this with the ladies. Let the punishment fit the crime.”

“Okay,” Aragon nodded. “I’ll fire them.”

The director floundered. Aragon smirked. Even Joan made a tiny, amused sound that wasn’t quite a giggle, but it was something else from her usual whimpers and distressed noises.

“What? No!” The director warbled. “Not that!”

“Why not?” Aragon said dismissively. “We have understudies for a reason.”

“You can’t fire an entire cast! The understudies are not as good as the all-star cast! That’s why they’re understudies! They’re good, but not good enough!”

“I-I think the understudies are really good,” Joan offered meekly. Aragon smiled at her and she even cracked a ghost of her own on her pale lips.

“They are, aren’t they?” Aragon said.

“You are not firing our stars.” The director said firmly. “You can do anything else! Just not that!” He cleared his throat, calming himself. “Now. Due to this...issue...Joan,” He glanced at Aragon when he used the correct name, “I’m going to have to call your mother to pick you up for the day.”

Joan stiffened like she had been struck by lightning. She went horrifically pale- paler than she usually was.

“Wh-what?” She whispered.

“I’m calling your mother,” The director said again. He furrowed his eyebrows at her distress. “You’re a minor, Joan. Your parents have to be called when something is wrong. And you need to be picked up. I know it’s basically the end of rehearsals, but you probably shouldn’t stick around any longer than you have to.”

“No,” Joan said in a voice that’s strangled with fear. Her eyes are wide, like she’s already predicting a million different futures where this goes horribly wrong and gets her in trouble or humiliated again.

“We have to get your mother involved.” Aragon said gently, hoping to get through to the frightened girl. “She needs to know.”

“No!!” Joan cried, and then the water cooler against the wall burst apart.

———

Bernadette Meutas was as sickly as her daughter, but less so physically, and more so mentally. She had wide, wild, and bloodshot moss green eyes that were sucked into their sockets and sunken cheeks that made her head look more like a dead person’s skull. Her lips were frayed and bloodied from constant chewing on the flesh and her wrists were covered in scars, some old, some new.

Joan always hated the scars on her mother’s wrists. They made her feel guilty, like it was her fault that they were there.

“So, you’re a woman now,” Bernadette muttered.

She and Joan were sitting in the car outside their shabby house in the far outskirts of London. The building cast an eerie black shadow across the unkempt lawn. Behind it, the setting sun glowed blood red.

“Y-you should have told me, mama.” Joan said, voice shaking.

Bernadette clenched her jaw for a long moment, then roughly unbuckled her seat belt, threw open the car door, and stormed inside. Joan was left alone in the car, sniffling, trying to hold back tears.

“Maggot Meutas! Maggot Meutas!!”

Her mother had moved them all the way out to the sticks of England in hopes they could get far away from all the sinners and unholy leaches, but she didn’t seem to do a good job because there was a little neighbor boy on the other side of Joan’s window, shrilling like a bat out of hell.

“Maggot Meutas! Maggot Meutas!” He changed again, then pressed his nose against the glass and made what he thought was a good impression of a maggot’s face.

Joan clenched her fists with a pathetic whimper. Her blood was starting to boil.

The boy cackled loudly, twisted his bike around to drive off to celebrate his success of tormenting the city’s local freak, but didn’t get very far. Because Joan twitched and, suddenly, the kid is toppling over very ungracefully into a heap in the grass. He looked up at Joan, just as startled as she was, then scrambled to get his bike back up and rode off screaming.

Joan stayed very still for a long time, staring at her hands. Then, she’s wiggling out of her seat and walking slowly into her house, unable to ignore the confrontation with her mother any longer.

Bernadette was sitting in the kitchen with her back to Joan, rereading the Bible for what was probably the hundredth time and smoking a cigarette. The overhead lights were dim, but Joan could still see bloodstains on her mother’s green sleeves. She whimpered softly, but quickly bit her tongue when she glanced fearfully up at the large crucifix hanging above the dinner table. It was usually used to discipline her for her perceived infractions, and, because of that, always made her nervous whenever she stepped anywhere near it.

“Mama,” She spoke up softly, stepping warily into the kitchen doorway. “Y-you said y-you’d stop cutting yourself...”

She knew, deep down, that that promise was nothing but a hollow lie, but she liked to comfort herself with the thought that her mother would get rid of her self destructive habits and they could be a happy, normal family like she always wanted them to be.

“And God made Eve from the rib of Adam,” Bernadette recited instead of replying. Her voice was hollow and drained. “And Eve was weak and loosed the raven on the world. And the raven was called sin.” She creaked around slowly in her chair to stare at her daughter. “Say it.”

“Wh-why didn’t you tell me, mama?” Joan asked quietly.

“Say it.” Bernadette merely said again, rising to her feet.

“And the raven was called sin,” Joan said and the words were horribly sour on her tongue. She shook her head. “Why didn’t you just— why didn’t you tell me, mama?” She tangled her fingers in her cross necklace like she always did when she was nervous. The cold metal lacing bit into the back of her neck when she tugged on it. “Mama, mama, please. It hurts, mama. It hurts, it hurts!”

Bernadette is unfazed by her daughter’s desperate pleading. “And the first sin was intercourse.”

“I’m not Eve, mama!” Joan wheedled. “I-I didn’t sin!”

“You were showering with other women.” Bernadette said exasperatedly. She looked sick when she spoke that sentence. “You were having lustful thoughts.”

“N-no, no, mama!” Joan stammered, eyes widening in fear. “I-I wasn’t, mama! I promise!”

“You were having lustful thoughts about women.” Bernadette oozed scathingly.

“No! No!” Joan shook her head. “E-everyone has to shower! I-I was j-just cleaning myself up because I was sweaty after rehearsals!”

“So it’s this blasted play that’s doing this to you,” Bernadette mused, not even hearing her daughter. “It was a mistake. I thought putting you into homeschooling would give you more time to focus on your prayers. And you had been doing so good that your reward was to be in this damned show, but clearly you don’t deserve that.”

“No!!” Joan cried. “No, mama, please let me stay! Please! I-I promise that I’ve been a good girl! I do my schoolwork during any free time I have and I always pray! Always! I promise!”

Even if it earned her awful ridicule and teasing.

“But you sinned.” Bernadette seethed. Her voice remained dry and hollow, sending several chills down Joan’s spine.

“I didn’t!” Joan said. “I-I’ve never sinned! Never ever! N-not at school, not at home, no at the theater! S-so please don’t take me out, mama, I love to play mu—”

Joan was cut off when her mother hit her across the head with the Bible. Her frail, lightweight body instantly crumpled under the force of the heavy book and she toppled to the ground with a cry of shock and pain.

“And the first sin was intercourse.” Bernadette said blankly, gazing down at the shuddering figure of her young daughter.

“I didn’t sin, mama!” Joan just said again, hoping she would eventually get through to her mother.

“Say it.” Bernadette said. “The first sin was intercourse.”

Joan stammered, choking on her words.

“The first sin was intercourse. The first sin was intercourse. The first sin was intercourse.”

“Mama-“

“The first sin was intercourse.”

“The first sin was intercourse!” Joan sobbed, tears streaming freely down her cheeks. “Mama, I was so scared! I-I thought I was dying! A-and e-everyone was laughing and th-throwing things at me—”

“And Eve was weak.” Bernadette said. “Say it.”

“No!!”

“Eve was weak. Eve was weak. Eve was weak. Say it! Eve was weak. Eve was weak.” Bernadette chanted over and over again.

Joan covered her ears, pulled her knees tightly to her chest, and wailed, “Eve was weak! Eve was weak!”

“And the Lord visited Eve with a curse,” Bernadette whispered. “And the curse was a curse of blood!”

“You should have told me, mama,” Joan wept. “You should have told me!”

Bernadette suddenly dropped to her knees in front of Joan, making her flinch away. She ripped Joan’s hands from where they’re over her ears and held them tightly in her own.

“Oh, Lord!” Bernadette howled, shaking Joan. “Help this sinning girl see the sin of her days and ways! Show her that if she had remained sinless, the curse of blood would have never come on her!”

“No, mama,” Joan whined weakly, wriggling in her mother’s grasp.

“She may have been tempted by the anti-Christ, she may have committed the sin of lustful thoughts—”

“M-Miss Aragon s-said it h-happens to every girl!” Joan said. “Th-that they all get it a-and it’s normal!”

“No, no,” Bernadette shook her head. She held tighter to Joan’s hands, digging her long fingernails into sensitive flesh and causing her daughter to sob in pain. “Don’t you lie to me, Johanna. Don’t you know already that I can see inside of you? I can see the sin within you.”

“P-please stop, mama, you’re hurting me,” Joan whimpered.

“You need to pray.” Bernadette suddenly said and Joan’s teary eyes shot open wide. “Come. Get in your closet.”

“No! No!!” Joan struggled against her mother as she was forcefully dragged across the floor to a small storage room underneath the staircase. She kicked and screamed, but it did little to free her as she was thrown into the cramped space like a worthless sack of potatoes. She tried to get up and run out, but the door was slammed in her face and promptly locked.

Banging on the door and screaming was fruitless. Joan gave up after a few minutes and curled up in one of the corners of the room, staring fearfully at the dozens of photos of Jesus’s death around her. The statue of him on a cross was by far the worst, though.

Pain seized her lower stomach and she whimpered. It felt like a demon was trying to claw its way out of her belly.

Joan curled up tighter, rocked herself back and forth slowly, and cried.


	2. Open Your Heart

The downpour outside felt unnatural and unstoppable and utterly, unpleasantly _wet_. And Aragon _loved it_. She especially loved the moaning, groaning, dripping slowpokes of her exhausted actresses.

“Alright!” Her voice had boomed across the auditorium half an hour earlier. “Line up! Let’s go, ladies!”

The actresses had hurried into a line on the stage, exchanging confused glances. Aragon looked a lot more menacing than she usually did, riled up to her full size like a venomous snake or a lioness about to strike. She stared at the group of women as if they were mangled roadkill that not even the lowest of scavengers would want to eat. 

“Come on! Move your asses!” Aragon barked. Luanne and Piper, eyes front! Clarissa, shut your mouth! And Kitty, spit out that gum right now! You know it’s not allowed on the stage!”

“Where should I put it, Miss Aragon?” Kitty asked sweetly.

“You can choke on it for all I care,” Aragon hissed in her face. “Just get it out of your mouth.”

Kitty stepped back and grit her teeth. She gave up after a moment, groaning softly while spitting her gum into the wrapper it came in and putting it into her pocket to throw away later.

“Good,” Aragon said, stepping back. “Margaret, wipe that smirk off your face.”

Maggie, who had been grinning devilishly up until that moment, jolted and bit her lips into a flat line. At her side, Jane glowered at Aragon. Aragon glowered right back at her.

“Now,” Aragon began slowly, pacing up and down the line of actresses. “What you did yesterday was a shitty thing. A really shitty thing. Have any of you ever stopped to wonder if Joan Meutas had feelings?”

Nobody spoke, although Maggie did dare to roll her eyes, earning her the evilest glare from Aragon.

“I expected better of you all.” Aragon went on. “Most of you are grown adults! Julie,” She whipped her head towards a woman with olive skin and curly auburn hair. “You have a daughter, don’t you? You’re a _mother_! How could you do such a thing?”

Julie opened her mouth, but then immediately shut it and narrowed her eyes at the floor, unable to come up with a mature response. Aragon sneered in disgust.

“But Joan isn’t _her daughter,_ ” Kitty said. “She shouldn’t have to care about other kids. Only her own.”

“That still gives her no right to throw fucking tampons at a frightened child!” Aragon growled. “Joan is _sixteen_. Do you all know that? She’s just a kid. A _minor_. And I could have you all arrested for harassment. Sexual harassment, too, I’m sure, seeing as she was naked.”

That seemed to get through to some of them, as they exchanged worried glances and a few murmurs. Jane gave Aragon a “you wouldn’t dare” look, while Aragon raised an eyebrow and gave one right back at her that said, “try me.”

“As you know, opening night is coming up,” Aragon said. “Jane. Have anyone special you’re bringing?”

Jane looked Aragon up and down skeptically. “His name is Henry Tudor.”

“Oh, how fancy,” Aragon said. “Is he going to wear anything nice to the show? Or are you just going to pin a bloody tampon to his shirt and tell him to go like that?”

Jane bared her teeth at Aragon’s smirk. She tried to march past the woman, but she’s grabbed roughly by the shoulder and shoved back into place.

“Oh, you aren’t going anywhere,” Aragon said. She turned to Anne after releasing Jane and studied her guilty expression. “What about you, Anne? Got anyone you’re bringing to opening night?”

Anne looked profoundly uncomfortable, just how Aragon wanted her. She wanted all of the actresses to squirm like there were worms under their skin. She wanted them to feel in their souls what they did to Joan.

“My family,” Anne said. “Cathy will already be there.”

“Hm,” Aragon shot a glance at Cathy standing nearby, who was trying very hard to act like a harmless statue. “Maybe.”

That made Cathy move from her statue-like position. She looked at Aragon in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“My idea of punishment for this little trick you pulled was to fire all of you,” Aragon said. The smirk on her lips twitched higher when the group exclaimed in shock and disbelief. “That’ll hit you where it hurts, doesn’t it? It’s what you all deserve.”

“You can’t do that!” Jane growled.

“I can, actually,” Aragon said. “We have understudies. Hell, I’ll even get the boys to play your roles! However.” She stared down at all of them. “The director doesn’t want to go to that extreme just yet. So instead, you are all to have mandatory warmups with me for a week. It’ll be an hour long and you will do whatever I say for you to do or else you’ll be packing your things and never coming back. Do you all understand?”

There are nods of agreement with gritted teeth.

“Wonderful.” Aragon smiled. “Go take a lap around the block. Five laps, actually. And recite all of your lines while you do so. Get those leg muscles warmed up for dancing.”

“But—it’s raining.” Kitty said, clearly dismayed about having to get wet.

“I don’t care,” Aragon said silkily. “Go! Now!”

There had been a moment of hesitation, but after she yelled again, the actresses realized she was being serious and filed out of the auditorium in a disbelieving, muttering mass of grumpiness. Aragon shook her head with a sigh, watching them go. She then turned around to go wait somewhere else when she had noticed the head peeking out from the wings. A kind smile formed on her lips.

“Hello, honey,” She greeted Joan warmly. “Come here. No need to hide.”

Joan hesitated, then shuffled out of the dark wings. She had her fingers wrung in her shirt and kept glancing around everywhere, expecting there to be something that may humiliate her just waiting around for her.

“How are you feeling?” Aragon asked, easing an arm around Joan’s shoulders. She almost pulled away when she felt Joan stiffen, but then she was leaning against her with a small, content noise. 

“Umm… F-fine.” Joan mumbled awkwardly. “Did you really make them run?”

“I did,” Aragon said proudly. “They deserve it.”

Joan nodded very slowly, like she was trying to convince herself that that was true. 

“Thank you.” She whispered. “I-I never told you yesterday. I-I’m sorry…”

“No, no, honey,” Aragon said. “It’s totally fine! You must have been so overwhelmed yesterday.”

Joan nodded again and Aragon gently cupped her face. She leaned into that touch, too. The poor thing must not get much affection at home, Aragon realized sadly.

“I am so sorry that happened to you, Joan.” Aragon said. “You didn’t deserve that at all.”

“B-but my mama s-said—” She snapped her mouth shut quickly.

“What?” Aragon tilted her head. “What did your mother say?”

Joan shook her head, looking a touch uncomfortable. She shuffled her feet. 

“N-nothing,” She stuttered. “I-I need to g-go do my schoolwork. B-bye, Miss Aragon.” 

She began to hurry away, paused, then rushed back over to Aragon and gave her a quick hug.

“Thank you,” She whispered softly before pulling back and scampering off.

Aragon was left awestruck. She had never expected Joan Meutas to hug her, but she didn’t mind in the slightest. A loving smile spread on her lips.

 _Sweet girl…_ She thought, and she continued to fondly think about the shy little pianist until the auditorium doors had swung open and the group of actresses she sent running came hobbling back inside in a soaked heap.

Aragon watched in amusement as they floundered up to the stage, looking as though they had been dredged from the bottom of one of the canals. A few of them, like Maggie and Kitty, flopped right to the ground like a soggy blob, while others doubled over and panted or held their hands behind their heads and raised their arms to try and get more air into their lungs. No matter what position they took, they all looked equally cold, equally soaked, and equally miserable. Just how Aragon wanted them. 

“You—you can’t do this to us,” Jane hissed through heavy breaths. She was kneeling to rest her legs, glaring up at Aragon, who was still smiling pleasantly. “We could catch our death out there!”

“I’m sure a little Swine Flu would teach you not to harass a teenage girl,” Aragon said dismissively. “Alright, ladies, break’s over. You still have twenty minutes of warmups before rehearsals start and I want you to—”

“ _No_.”

Aragon stared down at Jane. She watched as she rose up to her feet, eyes flashing like a vengeful white tiger’s. 

“No?” Aragon echoed.

“Jane…” Anne muttered cautiously from where she was sitting down. 

“I’m not doing another goddamn thing you say,” Jane clarified, “because Joan Meutas got her period and was too stupid to know what it was.”

There’s a scattering of murmurs throughout the group. Aragon’s expression looked frighteningly calm, but anger was flickering in her dark eyes.

“Alright,” She said slowly, venom oozing from her lips. “You’re out.”

Jane is taken aback. “Excuse me?”

“You’re out.” Aragon said more firmly. “You will not be performing opening night.”

“No!” Jane yelled. “You can’t do that! You don’t make those calls!”

“I just did, Seymour.”

“Well, you can just stick it up your—”

Jane is cut off when she’s hit so hard she nearly toppled over. The sound echoed through the auditorium, much louder than when Joan had been slapped the day before. While that slap had been done to snap a frightened girl out of her panicked trance, this one had been done purely out of rage and hatred.

“I do not want to hear another word from you!” Aragon roared, grabbing Jane by the collar of her shirt and shaking her viciously. “You will not be performing, do you understand me? And if I gave my way with the director, you will never be performing for this show ever again! Now go!”

Jane stared at her in disbelief, tense in the grasp that held her. 

“GO!” Aragon bellowed, shoving Jane backward. Jane stumbled, then finally sulked off of the stage, cradling her welting cheek and muttering, maybe even crying. “Now…for the rest of you…” 

Aragon turned her flashing eyes to the group.

“Run Suicides. Now.”

———

“Well, that was plain awful,” Cathy muttered, peeling off her wet clothes. Rainwater and sweat have made them soggy and unbearable. She felt like she was chafing all over. “Could be worse, though, right, Annie? Anne?”

She turned around when she didn’t get a reply to see her girlfriend sitting on one of the shower benches, deep in thought. She pulled on a dry shirt and walked over, gently touching Anne’s shoulder.

“Babe?” She said. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh, nothing,” Anne smiled up at her. “Just…thinking.”

“About?” Cathy sat next to Anne.

“Joan.”

Cathy furrowed her eyebrows. “Joan? How come?”

“Cathy, what happened yesterday was awful. I feel /terrible/. And I want to do something about it.” Anne said. “I want to help Joan.”

“How?”

Anne thought for a moment, then perked up. Her eyes had a new light in them.

“We be her friend!” She declared. 

Cathy blinked. “That’s all?”

“Cathy, when I asked her if she was okay yesterday, she looked like she was ready to get on her knees and worship me.” Anne said. “She wants someone. She /needs/ a friend. And we can be that for her!”

Cathy thought it over briefly, then smiled and nodded. “Alright. Let’s do it.”

Anne beamed. “Oh, thank you, Cathy!” She gave her a quick kiss. “You are the best! Come on, let’s go find her!”

It was harder than they expected to find Joan Meutas. She usually wasn’t with anyone, not even the other musicians who she had to work with, preferring to be alone to avoid ridicule. Cathy and Anne searched for a good twenty minutes before they finally stumbled upon her by accident in the upstairs costume room. 

The room was on a separate floor from the main second level of the theater. You have to go up a flight of black stairs in one of the dark wings and stand on an equally black ledge to open up a large, heavy wooden door that never made a single noise when its hinges would move. When you stepped inside, there would be two places to go- a ladder with its paint peeling on the left that led up to the catwalk, which was where Cathy and Anne had been meaning to go to get a better view of the auditorium, and then the extra costume room on the right. Old, shabby, unwanted costumes were kept in there, so nobody usually went in there. But from the way Joan was tucked cozily in a rack of indigo and azure dresses and frayed blue wool ponchos, it seemed like she visited this room quite often.

When Anne had first joined this specific West End theater, she distinctly remembered the extra costume room being a mess- suits thrown on the floor, shoes lying around listlessly without a matching pair, cardigans hung up with pants. It was like a tornado had blown through a clothing store. But now everything was sorted neatly in rainbow order. All the reds were with the reds, all the oranges were with the oranges, and so on. There were also several books stacked against one of the racks and a fluffy blanket that Joan was currently using. 

When Joan noticed Anne and Cathy standing in the doorway, staring at her, she jumped three feet in the air so fast that the pair of women were even startled. She scrambled to her feet, nearly sending the rack of blue clothes she had been snuggled in toppling onto her.

“I-I-I’m sorry!” She yelped. “I-I-I d-d-didn’t mean to ignore w-work! I-I just—”

“Hey, hey, shh,” Anne took a small step towards her. “It’s okay. We’re not mad.”

Joan wasn’t convinced. Not that Anne or Cathy blamed her. They could both clearly see the hurricane of grief and guilt and fear and anxiety that had apparently taken the place of logical thought in this girl’s head. Everything, _every little thing_ , was a worst-case scenario to this girl. Everything ended in a disaster to her.

To be around Joan was to walk on shaky grounds, and Anne and Cathy had to tread carefully.

“I’m Anne, remember?” Anne said, trying to look as friendly and nonthreatening as possible. “And this is Cathy.”

“I know you who you guys are,” Joan mumbled. She looked down at the floor. “I’m not dumb…”

“I bet you aren’t at all,” Cathy said. “I bet you’re really smart, huh?”

The way Joan looked at Cathy… She so badly wanted to trust both her and Anne. But years of hurt and ridicule that stretched far before her time at the theater lingered and made her put up more walls than any person should ever have. She shrunk further into her mental shell and merely shrugged in reply to Cathy’s comment, looking away again.

“What were you reading?” Anne asked, glancing at the book Joan had been reading before she was startled to her feet. 

“Oh,” Joan hurried over to the book and gingerly picked up. She looked absolutely mortified when she saw the cover page had been bent a little on the corner when she dropped it. “I-it’s, umm—” She floundered, simultaneously worked up about the book and the two women talking to her. “Th-The Crucible.”

“Oooh,” Cathy cooed in interest. “That’s a good one.”

Joan nodded as she was trying to fix the crease. “M-my mama said that— I-I mean mum— mother— umm—” She whimpered sharply, looking around in dismay.

 _She still calls her mum “mama”,_ Anne thought with a small smile. _That’s adorable._

It was so sad about how embarrassed she was getting over it, though.

“Joan, it’s alright.” Anne assured her. “You can call your mother whatever you want. We’re not going to make fun of you for that.”

That mixed look of adoration and shock from the day before returned, but this time much brighter. 

“You— Thank you.” Joan bowed her head in a grateful way. She ran her thumb over the whitened crease against the corner. “B-but—she said that I need to read books like this. S-so I will know what will happen if I sinned.” 

Anne and Cathy both exchange worried looks. Joan doesn’t notice, nor does she notice Cathy’s grimace. Now things were starting to fall in place a little more. 

“I see,” Anne said slowly.

“Well, I don’t think you have anything to worry about.” Cathy said. “You’re a very good girl, Joan.”

Joan blinked at her in delight.

“What else do you like to read?” Anne asked. She glanced over at the stack of books against the wall, only to find them all dealing with Christianity in some way. “Harry Potter? Hunger Games? Percy Jackson?”

“Oh, no,” Joan shook her head. “My mama says that stuff was made by the devil and will rot your brain. I’m not allowed to read books like that.”

 _What an awful childhood she must have had,_ Anne thought sadly, tilting her head at Joan. _Poor thing._

“Well, if you ever need book recommendations,” Cathy said. “I read a lot. So I know a few.” She winked at Joan, and, for the briefest of moments, Joan cracked a tiny ghost of a smile. 

But then it went away in an instant, snuffed out like a candle in a winter whirlwind because caution and worry were shoving their way into Joan’s brain. She looked Cathy and Anne up and down again, then stepped back. She’s retreated back into her shell, suddenly frightened.

“Wh-why are you doing this?” She asked softly, hugging her book close to her chest like she thought it may protect her from cruel words or even physical blows. “Wh-why are y-you…” She trailed off, looking away.

“Oh, Joan,” Anne murmured. “We want to be your friend.”

Joan stared at her with impossibly wide eyes. Then, she’s stumbling over her words- _“You want to- I’m your- you like- no- no- you can’t- you will hurt- no- no- no!”_ \- and trembling. Cathy reached out to comfort her, but she cried out and darted under her arm and out the door. They both heard her run haphazardly down the black staircase and somewhere further into the theater, leaving them defeated and saddened.

“Well,” Anne breathed. “That could have gone better.”

———

Aragon found her curled up under the piano in one of the rehearsal rooms with her knees to her chest, crying. She had been going to find the prop master to see if the blanks for the guns had come in, but that was the last thing on her mind when she heard the soft sniffles and whimpers of Joan Meutas.

She hurried inside, setting her cup of tea and script down on one of the shelves immediately, and knelt down in front of the piano. Joan’s head jerked up, but her frightened eyes softened slightly when she realized it wasn’t anyone that wanted to hurt her.

Joan trusted her.

A flutter of joy tickled inside of Aragon, but she pushed it aside for the moment. She examined Joan, luckily finding no open wounds or gashes or bruises, but any pain inflicted on her to make her cry could easily be mental and emotional, not physical. 

“Joan, honey,” She said softly. “What’s wrong?”

Joan sniffled and wiped her eyes with her sleeve. She was doing her best to not look at Aragon, but she seemed to crave the warmth and tenderness in her eyes.

“N-nothing,” She whispered so quietly Aragon almost didn’t hear it.

“Did one of the girls do something to you?” Aragon asked. 

Joan shook her head wordlessly. Aragon crawled underneath the piano and sat down next to her.

“Then what is it?”

Joan hesitated a moment, sniffled, then whispered, “S-someone asked to be my friend.”

Aragon’s eyes lit up. “Oh, Joan, that’s wonderful!” She beamed. “Who was it?”

“A-Anne Boleyn and C-Cathy Parr,” Joan told her. She clasped her hands together tightly. “I-I know who they go around with Miss Aragon. They’re just gonna trick me again…”

Aragon frowned. She knew that Joan was wary of people, but it seemed like her social anxiety and fear of others ran much deeper than she thought. She couldn’t even believe that someone wanted to be her friend.

“Well, maybe they’re not,” Aragon said, hoping to raise Joan’s spirits. “Maybe they really mean it.”

“But _why_?” Joan looked up at Aragon and her eyes were so, so sad. Aragon wished she could reach inside of her and crush every ounce of misery and fear and doubt that festered in her. “Why _me_? Why would anyone want to be my friend?” 

“Oh, sweetheart…”

It was awful. Nobody deserved to be so untrustworthy of the world and its people.

“Joan, baby,” Aragon took Joan’s smaller, bony hands in hers and held them tightly. “Do you wanna know what I see when I look at you?”

Joan tensed and Aragon could practically hear her brain screaming, _“Here it comes! You shouldn’t have trusted her! She’s going to tell you how horrible you are!”_

She silenced them herself.

“I see a beautiful young lady.” Aragon told her. Joan’s eyes widened. “You’re so wonderful and sweet and amazing, Joan. You are a _blessing_. And anyone who gets to be friends with you should be honored to be friends with such an angel.”

Joan blushed and looked away shyly, but she wasn’t able to smother the giddy smile twitching on her lips. She craved compliments and affection, Aragon knew. She was just too modest to admit to anything said highly about her and too anxious to ask for a gentle touch.

“You’re just saying that…” Joan mumbled.

“Don’t be daft, Joan,” Aragon said, nudging her. “It’s all true.”

“Y-you really think I’m an angel?” Joan asked softly.

Aragon smiled and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, which nearly sent her dissolving into tears all over again.

“Of course.”

Joan stared at her in shock before folding into her arms. Aragon held her protectively, stroking her long blonde hair.

“If you’d like,” She said, “I can go talk to Anne and Cathy. Make sure they aren’t trying anything. How does that sound?”

Joan nodded. “I-I like that plan…”

It was settled. Once Joan and Aragon eventually eased apart, Aragon went to go find Anne and Cathy after making Joan was completely okay to be left on her own. When she found the pair, she herded them into their dressing room and promptly began to grill them on their charade.

“We aren’t trying to trick her!” Anne cried. 

“Then why are you just now asking to be her friend?” Aragon asked calmly. “Why are you now deciding to be nice to her?”

“I—” Anne’s shoulder’s slumped and she sat back in her chair heavily. “I don’t know, okay? I just— What happened yesterday was awful.”

“Yes, it was,” Aragon said. She glanced momentarily at Cathy and remembered how she had gotten some blood on her.

“We thought that this would be good for her.” Cathy tried. “To get her to be with people and join in on a few things…”

“Make her apart of things?” Aragon guessed.

“Yeah!” Cathy nodded, but deflated when she saw Aragon roll her eyes.

“We aren’t that stupid, Catherine.” Aragon said. “And neither is Joan. She knows who you’re friends with.”

“Do you think I WANT to be cousins with Kitty after what she did yesterday?” Anne said. “Or friends with Jane? And, if it makes anything any better, I’ve downgraded Maggie to a mutual costar.”

Aragon sighed and rubbed her forehead. “I just don’t want Joan to get hurt again.”

“We’re not going to hurt her, Catalina.” Cathy said. 

Aragon examined the two of them for a moment and then took a deep breath and folded her hands together in her lap.

“Look me in the eye,” She said, “and tell me that again. Tell me that you will not hurt Joan and that you genuinely want to be her friend.”

Anne looked into Aragon’s dark eyes and said, “We’re not going to hurt Joan.”

Aragon stared back at her for a long time, then snorted a light laugh and leaned back.

“Alright,” She said. “I have a pretty good bullshit detector. I believe you. For now. Don’t make me regret that.”

Anne and Cathy both smiled in relief.

“Thank you, Catalina.”

“Yes, thank you.”

Aragon nodded. “I’ll go get Joan.” 

She retrieved the girl and, after explaining to her that Anne and Cathy weren’t going to hurt her, left her alone with them to finally go talk to the prop master.

“Hey,” Anne said, smiling gently at the girl now sitting across from her.

“Hi,” Joan whispered. She doesn’t have her head raised, but she kept glancing up at Anne and Cathy.

Anne thought for a moment. She wasn’t quite sure what to talk about with Joan. She didn’t want to bring up the conversation with Aragon because the extra layer of “we’re not gonna hurt you” may seem a bit suspicious. Luckily, however, her girlfriend quickly jumped in to fill the silence before it got too awkward.

“When did you learn to play the piano?” Cathy asked.

Joan laced a finger around the chain of her cross necklace and tugged on it. “Umm— the house w-we moved into had one. I-it’s kinda old, but…” She shrugged a little. “I like it.”

“Well, you’re very good,” Cathy said. “Your playing is beautiful.”

Joan blushed. “Thank you.” She mumbled.

She tugged harder on the chain and Anne noticed that it was starting cut into her skin.

“Joan—” She stood up and walked over to her purse, fishing out a squishy green parrot that she would often use as a stress ball. She sat back down and offered it to Joan. “You’re hurting your fingers, sweetheart. Play with this.” 

Joan stared at it, then glanced up at Anne’s encouraging eyes and Cathy’s smiling face. Slowly, so slowly, she untangled her finger from where it was coiled her necklace and tentatively took the parrot. She squeezed it in her hands a few times, a tiny smile forming on her pale lips.

“Do you like it?” Anne asked.

Joan nodded shyly.

“Why don’t you keep it then?”

Joan’s head whipped up comically fast and her bug-eyed expression would have been even funnier if it weren’t for what the reaction implied.

“Oh, M-Miss Anne, I-I can’t—” Joan stammered, and yet she was still glancing down at the parrot as if it were the most valuable thing in the world.

“I insist, Joan.” Anne said. “You need it a lot more than I do. And I don’t use it that often, anyone. The poor little guy is probably so lonely in my purse.”

“Surrounded by gum wrappers,” Cathy added with a titter.

“Hsst.” Anne elbowed her playfully. She looked forward when she heard Joan shuffling in her seat and saw the girl taking some money out of her back pocket.

“I-it’s not much— I was gonna use it to ride the bus home, b-but—”

 _Oh Joan._ Anne thought sadly. _Oh you poor, sweet child. You WOULD give up the money that’ll get you home safely for a squishy toy parrot I stole from the lost-and-found in college._

“No no, put that away.” Anne said hurriedly and Joan stopped, tilting her head at her like SHE was the crazy one. 

“Think of it as a gift.” Anne said. “Have you ever gotten a gift before?”

Joan looked away and Anne frowned, knowing the answer.

“You don’t have to pay me or give me anything, I promise.” Anne assured her.

Joan nodded and put her money away. “Thank you,” She whispered before looking down at the parrot with a look on her face that said she was trying to remember the last time she had been given something. “Thank you.”

“You deserve it, Joan.” Anne said and Cathy nodded in agreement at her side.

“I like birds,” Joan said softly. She turned the parrot over in her hands, examining every inch of it. Despite it being old and a little patchy in some areas, she seemed to think it was the most amazing thing in the entire world.

“Do you?” Cathy inquired. “What’s your favorite?”

“Snowy owls.” Joan said, smiling a little more. “Or barn owls. I just like owls. But ducks are cute, too.”

“They are.” Cathy agreed.

“Do you have any pets?” Anne asked.

Joan shook her head with an adorably grumpy expression. “No,” She said. “Mama says animals are filthy, but I really like them! I wish I could get a cat or just a fish…” Her shoulders slumped and she gazed at the parrot longingly, like she was hoping it would magically come to life and be her new pet.

“Maybe you will one day!” Cathy said. “You never know.”

Joan nodded. “Maybe.”

Anne and Cathy talked with Joan for twenty more minutes, slowly but surely easing her out of her shell, before she said she had to go before she missed her bus home. She waved to them goodbye, offering a rare, nearly-full smile before disappearing out the dressing room door.

—

“Mama!” Joan called. “I’m home!”

She hung her bag up neatly on one of the hooks in the front room and darted into the kitchen, not even glancing at the crucifix. Her mind was too focused on getting out ingredients from the cabinets.

Anne might have said she didn’t want payment, but she had to give her something. Cathy and Aragon, too. She couldn’t just get so much kindness for free.

“What kind of cookies do you think they would like?” She asked her new parrot, which she placed on the kitchen island. “Snickerdoodles or oatmeal?”

She didn’t get a reply, but she pretended in her head that it responded to her.

“Snickerdoodles!” She nodded. “You’re right! Everyone likes those!”

She excitedly took out the cinnamon and sugar, grinning in a way that she hadn’t done in forever. But who could blame her? She had _friends_!


	3. Dreamer In Disguise

“I-I made you cookies!”

A platter of lumpy, cinnamon-sprinkled cookies covered in a thin plastic wrapping was held up to Anne. She glanced at them, then at the nervous, but excited girl offering them to her. She smiled and took one.

“Thank you, Joan.” She said. She took a bite and Joan clenched her fingers around the plate expectantly.

The cookies were a tad too salty and a little hard, but good nonetheless. 

“These are really good!” Anne said and Joan sighed in relief.

“Thank you, Miss Anne,” She said, cracking a small smile. “I-I have to go find Miss Cathy and Miss Aragon and give them some!”

Anne shook her head fondly as Joan scampered off. The cookies really did help with the hour of warmups with Aragon and then rehearsals. It was so good to see Joan opening a little bit more.

But that all ended when the workday came to a close and Anne and Cathy walked out into the theater lobby to leave to find Joan slumped against the wall, hugging her knees.

“Joan?” Anne said as they hurried over to her. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh. H-hi.” Joan croaked. “I-I missed my bus…”

“Ah,” Anne nodded. “Well, why don’t you call your mum to pick you up?”

“I tried,” Joan said. “She’s in one of her…moods.” She hugged her knees tighter. “I-I don’t wanna go home when she’s like that, anyway…”

Anne and Cathy exchanged worried frowns. Cathy crouched down next to Joan and set a hand on her shoulder.

“Why don’t you come to stay with us for the night?” She offered.

Joan’s eyes went wide. “R-really?” She looked up at Anne, who smiled at her. “Like…like a sleepover?”

“Yeah!” Cathy nodded. “Like a sleepover!”

“I-I’ve never had a sleepover before,” Joan said wistfully. “C-can I really?”

“Of course,” Cathy said. “Come on. Up with you!”

She got Joan to her feet and they all walked out to the car. Joan was quiet for most of the ride, just listening to the radio she had never heard pop music before. Though, Anne nor Cathy wouldn’t be surprised if her mother only let her listen to church songs and gospel music.

It wasn’t until they parked in the apartment complex parking lot that Anne and Cathy realized how strange what they were doing was. They were bringing home a sixteen-year-old girl they had no relation to at all. If it were anyone else, like Kitty or Maggie, they might have been a little uneasy, but Joan…

With Joan, it just felt _right_.

“Welcome to our humble abode,” Anne said grandly, unlocking and opening the front door. Cathy walked in first, followed by Joan. Anne locked the door behind them after stepping inside.

“Make yourself at home!” Cathy said as she was turning on the lights.

Joan looked around the apartment, curiosity glinting in her eyes. When she was done examining every inch of the living room, dining room, and kitchen, she hooked her bag on one of the dining table chairs and walked over to Anne and Cathy. They both noticed that she kept glancing over at the dining room the most- was she looking for something?

“Joan?” Anne said.

“S-sorry.” Joan stammered. She reached up to instinctively mess with her necklace, but Anne caught her hand and held it in her own, stroking the knuckles with her thumb.

“It’s alright, sweetheart,” Anne assured her. “We were just about to order something to eat. Do you like pizza?”

“I’ve only had it a few times,” Joan admitted shyly. “Back when I was still in school. Sometimes they did these pizza parties. But, umm. Yeah, I like it.”

“Any particular kind?” Cathy asked. She looked up from her laptop, where she was already on some pizza shop’s website.

“Cheese?” Joan said and Cathy nodded and smiled.

“You don’t go to school anymore?” Anne asked.

“Oh.” Joan looked a little awkward. “I-I’m homeschooled. Actual school—it wasn’t working out.”

Anne frowned slightly. “How come?”

Joan glanced up at her for a moment, then back to the dining room, and then focused her gaze back on the tile floor. She worried her hands in her shirt.

“Kids—were mean. To me.” She said in a tight voice. “Th-they called me names. Like ‘Maggot Meutas.’ And would write things on my desk. Mean things…”

“Oh, Joan…” Anne hugged Joan gently and she hugged back. Anne can feel her nuzzle her face against her chest. Cathy looked up from her computer to frown sadly at the girl. “That’s so terrible. I’m so sorry you had to go through that.”

Joan shrugged casually. “It’s—fine.”

 _But it isn’t._ Anne thought. _Not in any way. And certainly not to her._ She studied the girl hugging onto her. _She’s embarrassed about admitting her treatment because she thinks she deserved it and is also humiliated by it, but she wants to be comforted. She wants people to feel bad for her so they’ll finally take care of her. Because nobody ever does._

“Stop reading people, Annie.” Cathy chided playfully, not looking up from her computer. Anne ruffled and stuck her tongue out at the smirk her girlfriend was giving the screen.

“Wh-what?” Joan looked up at Anne with a confused expression.

“Nothing, sweet girl,” Anne said dismissively, stroking down a few locks of wild blonde hair on Joan’s head.

“D-did I do something?” Joan asked nervously. “I’m sorry…”

“No, no,” Anne said. “You’re being absolutely wonderful, Joan. You have done nothing wrong, I promise.”

Joan hesitated for just a moment, then nodded. She didn’t seem entirely convinced and that was making her glance more and more at the dining room.

 _What is it? What are you scared of?_ Anne so desperately wanted to ask. _What do I need to protect you from?_

A ringtone then went off. Joan jolted and scrambled to take her phone out of her back pocket. It was an iPhone 5, Anne noticed. Joan must have had it for a long time since Anne was pretty sure those models weren’t made or even sold anymore.

“Hello?” Joan said into the phone. She begrudgingly pulled herself away from Anne, stepped into the dining room, and then immediately went to the living room when she cast an anxious glance up at the ceiling above the table. “Mama?”

Anne really hadn’t been wanting to snoop, but not she had to. Besides, Cathy was definitely listening in, anyway.

“I told you, mama, I missed my bus.” Pause. “I-it was an accident!” Pause. “N-no, I’m safe. I’m staying with some friends.” Pause. Joan wrinkled her nose a little. “Yes, mama. _Friends_. Their names are Cathy and Anne. They’re—” She glanced over at the pair and they tried to look like they weren’t eavesdropping. “—sisters.”

Anne couldn’t help but make a face at that, but then instantly knew why such an excuse was needed. If Joan’s mother seemed as crazy religious as Joan made her out to be then she definitely wouldn’t approve of homosexuality and her daughter staying with two lesbians. She glanced at Cathy and saw that she was giving Joan a sympathetic look.

That made Anne think—what if Joan ended up being gay? Or bi? Or ace? Or anything but heterosexual? Cathy’s parents were very accepting of her sexuality and absolutely adored Anne, while Anne had the misfortune of having parents that were “okay with it as long as she never brought it up”. Not the worst treatment, but definitely irritating when she had been younger. But she couldn’t even begin to imagine how Joan would be treated by her mother if she turned out to be LGBTQ+ in some way. She didn’t want to think about what would happen to her.

“No, no, mama,” Joan had been saying when Anne finally tore her thoughts away from Joan being killed or brainwashed into being heterosexual by a church, “I’m okay, I’m okay, I promise. Cathy and Anne are really nice, I’m telling you!” Pause. She went very rigid. “Wh-what?” Pause. “O-okay.” She turned to Anne and Cathy and stammered, “Sh-she wants to talk to one of you.”

Cathy stepped up before Anne could even really process what had been said and took the phone, saying, “Hello” in her best please-don’t-think-I-kidnapped-your-daughter voice.

Joan scampered over to Anne and went straight into her arms. Anne was slightly shocked at how she willingly went into the hug but pleased nonetheless. She was thrilled to know Joan trusted her enough to cling to her in such a way.

“There there,” Anne murmured, stroking Joan’s hair. “It’s going to be okay, sweetheart. It’s going to be okay.”

“I-I’m sorry, M-Miss Anne,” Joan whimpered. “I-I know you and Cathy a-aren’t sisters—”

“Joan, it’s okay.” Anne assured her. “I understand. Trust me, before I told my parents Cathy and I were dating I would say she was my ‘Latin tutor’.”

“B-but you’re allowed to kiss your Latin tutor,” Joan pointed out. “Not your sister…”

Anne chuckled, filling with endearment. “Well, it’s a good thing she isn’t my sister then, huh?”

“Yeah,” Joan nodded slightly. She rested her head on Anne’s chest, taking a deep breath. “S-sorry—for freaking out.”

“No need to apologize,” Anne said. “You’re all good!”

Joan nodded again. She kept her head on Anne’s chest until Cathy walked back over and gave her back her phone. She said goodbye to her mother and told her she loved her before hanging up.

“I bet she’s great at parties,” Cathy chuckled, making Joan blush shyly. “I smoothed things over, Joan. Don’t worry. She said you can stay here.”

Joan breathed out a sigh of relief. “I’m glad. I-I was really scared for a minute that she would…” She shook her head. “I’m glad I can stay.”

 _She would what?_ Anne asked in her head. _What does she do to you?_

“Us too,” Cathy said with a grin. “Because I don’t think Anne and I can eat all I pizza I ordered by ourselves.”

“How much did you buy?!” Anne asked, whipping her head around to her girlfriend. At the same time, she heard Joan giggle softly- actually giggle- and it was the sweetest, most adorable sound she’s ever heard before.

“Not that much!” Cathy said. “I was joking!”

Joan giggled again and Cathy and Anne beamed at her. But then they both frowned in worry when she suddenly gasped in pain and her arms coiled tightly around her stomach.

“Joan?” Anne steadied her when she began to wobble. “What’s wrong?”

“I-it hurts,” Joan whispered fearfully. “M-Miss Anne, it hurts! Wh-what’s g-going on?! Why d-does it hurt?!”

 _Oh dear._ Anne thought.

Joan really didn’t know anything about menstruation. She was working herself up into a proper panic attack, whimpering and squeezing her stomach tighter.

“Hey, hey,” Anne guided her to look at her. “It’s okay. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

“No, no-” Joan shook her head. “I-it _hurts_!”

“I know it hurts, sweetheart.” Anne said.

“You’re having cramps.” Cathy told her. “I’ll get a hot water bottle and some Ibuprofen.” She quickly went to go bustle through the cabinets.

“C-cramps?” Joan echoed nervously. “L-like a stomachache?”

“Sorta.” Anne said. “But it’s down in this region,” She gestured towards Joan’s lower stomach. “Does it hurt bad?”

Joan nodded with a whimper. “Really bad.” She whispered. “L-like I’m gonna be sick…”

“Do you think you are?” Anne asked. “We can go to the bathroom.”

“I-I don’t wanna throw up,” Joan said miserably.

“I know you don’t,” Anne said, brushing back a loose strand of hair from Joan’s pale face. “Why don’t we just sit down on the couch? Does that sound better?”

Joan nodded and Anne guided her over to the couch. She curled against her side, hugging tighter at her cramping stomach and squeezing her eyes shut.

“Shh, shh,” Anne murmured when Joan whimpered. She began to rub her back comfortingly. “You’re okay, baby girl. You’re okay.”

“Wh-what’s happening to me?” Joan asked fearfully. “I-is it the devil?”

Anne almost laughed, but then she saw that Joan was being completely serious and that the thought of the devil being inside of her was genuinely freaking her out. She shook her head.

“No, Joan,” She said. “It’s not the devil. This is a completely normal thing. All girls go through it.”

“Th-that’s what Miss Aragon said,” Joan said. “Does she bleed, too? And have cramps?”

Anne couldn’t bite back a laugh this time. “I’m sure she does, honey. It’s not really a thing you ask other women, though.”

“Oh.” Joan blushed, and then asked anyway, “But—you. Even you? And Cathy?”

“Yes,” Anne nodded. “And Jane and Maggie and Kitty and every other girl in the show. Although, Kitty’s came when she was twelve.” She tilted her head at Joan. “Yours was super late. What a peculiar little thing you are.”

“It’s because I sinned…”

Anne gave another startled laugh. “What?”

“I sinned.” Joan said, looking up at her. Her shimmering silver eyes were so obliviousness and unknowing to so many things. “M-my mama said that the blood is a curse—from God. And I sinned when I was showering with all those ladies two days ago. A-and I had lustful thoughts about them…” She looked back down, ashamed of herself.

“Did you?” Anne asked.

“I don’t think so,” Joan said. “I-I mean—they’re all very pretty, but I don’t want to— I wasn’t—”

“Hey, hey. Breathe, baby.” Anne murmured, noticing that Joan was getting distressed again. “I believe you when you said you didn’t.”

Joan nodded. She shifted closer to Anne and then winced when another cramp seemed to seize her in a vice grip. She whimpered into Anne’s shirt.

Cathy walked back over holding two pills of Ibuprofen and a glass of water in one hand and a hot water bottle in the other. She gave the hot water bottle to Joan.

“Hold that to your tummy, sweetheart,” Cathy told her. “And take these. They’ll help you feel better.”

Joan obeyed, swallowing down the pills and then holding the fuzzy hot water bottle close to her lower stomach. She rested her head against Anne’s arm, looking utterly miserable.

“Joan,” Cathy said, sitting on the other side of the girl. “Do you know anything about what’s happening to you?”

Joan shook her head. “No… Why does it happen? Am I just bleeding for fun?”

Anne laughed and rubbed her head. Cathy smiled a little at her innocence.

“I didn’t think we would be giving THIS talk today, Cath,” Anne said jokingly. 

“Well, we have talked about adopting,” Cathy said. “This is like a rehearsal!”

 _Adopting,_ Anne remembered giddily. _Adopting…_ She looked longingly down at the girl curled up against her.

“Okay, so,” Cathy began with a clap of her hands. “Joan— Wait. When did you get pulled out of school?”

“Last year.” Joan said.

“So you would have had biology classes, didn’t you? Or those SexEd courses?”

“Oh, no,” Joan shook her head. “My mama always made me opt out about that stuff.”

“Well, that explains a lot,” Cathy said, then noticed the guilty look on Joan’s face. “No, no, sweetheart, it’s not your fault! I knew a girl who didn’t take the course one time.”

 _But not every single time._ Anne thought.

“Okay, so this may sound a little strange and it’s totally okay to be weirded out by it.” Cathy told Joan. “I was grossed out when I first heard about it, too. Basically your uterus is shedding its lining and it’s passing through your vagina and out of your body. This means that, technically, your body is capable of carrying and delivering a baby now. Every month, your uterus lines itself and waits a while. If at the end of the cycle, the egg cell prepared isn’t fertilized and embedded in the lining of the uterus, it sheds the lining to prepare a new one. Basically, your body finds out that you’re not pregnant, and cleans out everything to get it all ready and fresh again, just in case you get pregnant the next month around.”

Surprisingly, Joan didn’t look grossed out at all, just very, VERY confused. She looked up like she was deep in thought, trying to process all of that, and then finally said, “That’s weird. I could have babies now?” Her nose wrinkled at the thought.

“It’s possible, yes, but not at all a good idea.” Cathy said. “Your body might have a menstrual cycle now, but you’re not nearly mentally or physically ready to have kids yet.” She smiled slightly, glad that Joan was taking all the new information well.

Joan relaxed and nodded. “How do people get pregnant, then? You said the egg has to embed in the uterus, right? How does it know to do that?”

“Well, women have egg cells that contain half the DNA and chromosomes needed to make another human. These samples of DNA all come from you. That’s how children get to look so much like their parents. Men, then, have sperm cells that contain the other half of the DNA and chromosomes needed. The sperm fertilizes the egg and then pushes it up into the uterus. Once the fertilized egg is embedded in the uterus, that’s conception, and the woman is pregnant. This generally happens as a result of sexual intercourse.” Cathy replied to her easily and Anne gave her an amused look at how she explained this so smoothly. She would have to tease her over it when they were alone.

Joan nodded again, this time a little more knowing. “I know what that is.” She said.

Cathy raised an eyebrow, surprised. “Really?”

“Mhm,” Joan said. “My mama told me about it. And warned me to never EVER do it. Not even after I get married, but the Bible says it’s okay once you’re wed!” She paused. “Are you guys married? Do YOU—”

“That’s a conversation for another time!” Anne yelled, covering Joan’s mouth and the girl dissolved into adorable giggles. Cathy gave her a look that basically said, “Another time?”

“How do the babies get each trait from their parents? I mean, if a baby gets half it’s DNA from its mum and half from its dad, why do I look like my mama but she always says I have my papa’s eyes?”

“That’s a great question!” Cathy said and Anne laughed softly. “Some genes that are passed down are dominant and some are recessive. Your mother’s genes must have won out over most of your traits and was passed along to you, but your father’s eyes were dominant over hers.”

Joan took all this information in with surprising fascination. “How long do periods usually last?” She asked.

“On average, they last between three to seven days and happen once a month.” Cathy answered.

“I might bleed for seven days straight?”

“There’s a possibility, yes.” 

Joan wrinkled her nose in an adorably grumpy way. “I don’t like that.”

“Trust me, no woman does.” Cathy laughed. She perked up when the doorbell rang. “Oh! Food’s here!” She got up to go answer the door.

“Better now?” Anne asked.

“I think so,” Joan nodded. “It _is_ weird.”

Anne laughed and stroked her hair. “Yes, yes it is.”

“Come on, you two!” Cathy called from the kitchen. “Before I eat it all!”

“Oi! Don’t you dare!” Anne barked. She hauled Joan to her feet. “Come on! You heard the glutton!”

—

“A daughter,” Cathy said.

“Huh?” Anne turned away from the movie they had all been watching after dinner to look at her girlfriend.

“A daughter,” Cathy said again, smiling softly down at the girl asleep with her head in her lap. “I want a daughter.”

“Me too.” Anne grinned back at her. “A boy would be way too hard to manage.”

“Yeah,” Cathy laughed. “But also…there’s just something that draws me to a little girl.”

“You _are_ a lesbian,” Anne pointed out. “You _do_ prefer girls.”

“Really?” Cathy said. “I had no idea!”

“You dork,” Anne nudged her playfully. “Keep your voice down you might wake her up.” She smiled lovingly down at Joan, who had fallen asleep with her head in Cathy’s lap halfway through the movie. “I told you Brave was boring.”

“It is not!” Cathy ruffled. “It is a cinematic masterpiece!”

Joan stirred in her sleep. Cathy immediately quieted down and stroked Joan’s hair.

“Shh, shh, go back to sleep,” She murmured when she saw Joan’s eyelids flutter slightly. “I didn’t mean to yell. I’m sorry.”

Joan calmed with a content sleepy noise.

“Good job.” Anne tittered.

“Hush up.” Cathy elbowed her lightly. “I will not make that mistake when we get a little girl of our own.”

“Well,” Anne mused, “when you think about it, we kinda already have one.” She happily looked down at Joan again. Cathy sighed.

“Annie…” Cathy said. “She has a mother. We can’t-”

“We _can_!” Anne said. “Her mother clearly isn’t good to her. We can arrest her for child abuse! And then adopt Joan!”

Cathy shook her head, but didn’t comment.

“I know what you’re thinking, Cath,” Anne said. “But there’s something special about her. I don’t know what it is, but I— I want her in my life. In OUR life.”

Cathy looked at her, then at Joan, and gently began to thread her fingers through her hair.

“Well,” She said. “I wouldn’t have to give the period talk all over again…”


	4. Once You See

The next morning dawned grey and drizzly, but at least the pouring rain had moved out along with the apocalyptic thunder. Half of Anne was cold from the blankets being slightly tugged off, while the other was pleasantly warm. She rolled on the side that was warm and looked up to find her girlfriend already awake, quietly reading a book. She watched her with a loving smile for a few minutes, observing her subtle reactions at the chapter she was currently on- sometimes her nose would twitch or irritation with a character with flash in her eyes. Anne thought it was adorable. 

Cathy noticed her gawking after she flipped her third page and turned to smile at her.

“Good morning, my love,” She cooed softly.

“Good morning,” Anne replied, her voice still slightly rough from just waking up. She began to get up, and that’s when she heard a sleepy complaint from below and felt a slight stir of movement against her.

They weren’t the only ones in the bed.

Anne remembered the night before vividly: after Brave ended, she carefully picked Joan up and carried her to the spare bedroom. Then, she went to lie down with Cathy and slept for a good four hours before she was awakened by horrific wailing. 

She lurched out of bed, ripping the blankets halfway off in the process, and sprinted to the guest bedroom where she saw Joan writhing in the bed, whimpering and crying…and what she swore was the dresser floating in the air. A maternal instinct drove her forward, too worried over the teenager, so she had no idea if she had really seen a piece of furniture levitating or if it was just her eyes playing tricks on her after jarring awake so suddenly, but she didn’t care. All she cared about was calming Joan.

It was a lot easier than she was expecting to soothe the girl. She cradled her upper body against her chest, stroking her hair and murmuring soft, loving things in her ear, and, like that, she was quieting down. It seemed like all she needed was a gentle touch to free her from whatever nightmare had been trapping her.

After that, Anne made the decision to let Joan sleep with her and Cathy. And it seemed to be the right choice because the girl looked so content and peaceful all cuddled up next to her. It made Anne’s heart melt. She wished she could always wake up to such a sweet child in her home.

But she couldn’t. Because this child was not her own, no matter how much she wished that she was.

After breakfast, Cathy and Anne had to drop Joan off at her house. They both had been hoping to spend a little more time with her, seeing as they had the day off from rehearsals, but Joan’s mother had given strict instructions to give her daughter back before lunch, or she swore on the Lord that she would contact the police. 

Joan’s mother was waiting out on the house’s rickety wooden porch dressed in moss and ivy when the car pulled up. She shot to her feet instantly, walking briskly through the overgrown lawn to embrace her daughter when she got out. Both Anne and Cathy realized that she _did_ look like Joan, except her eyes were a deep green color instead of piercing silver. Those eyes cast a suspicious look at Anne and Cathy when they stepped out of the car; they felt like they were being sized up.

“So,” She said in a dry, oozing voice. “You two are the ones I owe the hospitality of my daughter to.” She scrutinized every inch of them. “You don’t look like sisters.”

“We’re adopted,” Cathy said without missing a beat like she had already mentally prepared for that comment.

“I see,” Ms. Meutas nodded slowly. She looked down at her daughter. “Were they good to you, Johanna?”

 _Johanna…_ Anne repeated in her head.

“Yes, mama,” Joan replied cheerily. “They’re my friends! Anne and Cathy!” She grinned at each woman respectively when she said their name and they smiled back. It made Ms. Meutas’ nose twitch as if she had never been smiled at by her own daughter like that before.

“Well, thank you,” Ms. Meutas bowed her head. “Come now, Joan. Let’s get inside.”

“Okay,” Joan nodded. “Bye, Miss Anne! Bye, Miss Cathy!” She waved at them before her mother herded inside the old house. When the door shut, Anne couldn’t help the awful feeling of longing and worry welling up inside of her.

———

Joan was in the forest.

She liked the forest a lot. It was tranquil, quiet, and not filled with crosses and crucifixes or people who wanted to mock her. It was just…peaceful. She could think clearly when she was alone in the woods. Sometimes she liked to lie on the ground and stare up at the canopy of leaves overhead, imagining what it would be like to be a bird.

But she wasn’t a bird. She was a useless, scarred waste of skin, as her peers in school had spent six years of her life reminding her. 

She still heard them all the time, their voices in her head telling her how wretched, hideous, and scary she was. She tried to drown them out by concentrating on theater work and prayers, but the smallest thing could bring them crashing back in. Just the thought of the shower incident—how familiar it all felt—brought on a fresh wave of memories of poisoned words and scornful laughter.

It all started when she was eleven. Up until that school year, she was mainly ignored by her peers. But then gym class and changing in front of other girls became a thing, and they all saw the way her ribs would weirdly press out against her skin and how her stomach was sunken too far in for her skinny hips. That was the day she learned what the word “emaciated” meant. It also kickstarted hell on earth for the next six years of her life.

The rest of Year 7 was spent with her being bombarded by food and the constant question of if she was hungry. She even started being called anorexic when a few of the kids figured out what that meant and would be asked if she needed someone to jam their fingers down their throat whenever she would go to the bathroom. She also distinctly remembered a boy giving her a tub of rotten meat with maggots in it one day, which then spurred the awful nickname “Maggot Meutas”.

Year 8 rolled around. Bernadette said that the bullying would go away after the break, but when Joan turned up to the school when she was twelve, she was only met with familiar evil faces and fresh bouts of teasing. The anorexic jokes became more extreme, but those were probably the least awful things she was met with because her peers grew enough balls over the break to start getting physical with her. That school year quickly became the year of being tripped, shoved, and slammed against walls. She had even been pushed down one of the staircases when she was going to get a drink of water and broke her arm. She still remembered how horrified and sick the culprits had looked when they heard the awful crunching and cracking sounds of her bones breaking, like hadn’t meant to do that much damage. Instead of helping her, they left her in the stairwell, where she cried on the floor for an hour, immobilized by pain, until class ended and she was found by dozens of students. She finished that year with a cast that got slurs written on it when bullies would pin her down and forcefully write whatever they wanted.

When she turned thirteen, she begged her mother to take her out of school before Year 9 started, but Bernadette refused and Joan had to live through another year of ridicule and harassment. That was the first time she got her head dunked in a toilet and fingers smashed in a door. 

Year 10 was the worst, in her opinion. All her peers seemed to spread the news of her weirdness like wildfire to the higher grades, turning people she didn’t even know against her. Older kids and kids her age alike would beat her and threaten her with knives they would sneak to school just so they could snatch whatever snack she bought from the cafeteria and turn anyone she may have befriended against her. Students in her class would beg the teacher to let them be with someone else if they were partnered with her, always making sure to do so in earshot of her. They would laugh at her during presentations and throw things at her and make fun of her when she messed up. They mimicked her stutter and nervous ticks, held her down and dripped hot glue on her skin, put staples in her ears and fingernails, and poised sharp objects too close to her eyeballs just to hear how loud she would squeal. And the entire time, no adults did anything. They all turned a blind eye to her treatment, even when she had the burns and scars and bruises to prove what had been happening to her.

She soon realized that it wasn’t that they didn’t see what was going on.

They just didn’t _care_.

She turned fifteen at a summer camp she hadn’t been allowed to go to, but sneaked off to, anyway. The break had been lonely and dreary- Joan wanted friends so badly that she dared to go against her mother’s wishes and ran off to the camp to try and be with kids that would mock her.

But, like everyone else in her life, they did. 

When she cheerily told them that it was her birthday, they called her a witch instead of singing to her. A large group of the cruelest campers, some being seventeen, some being only nine, dragged her out to the nearby river and repeatedly dunked her in the water until she began to drown, all while they chanted _“Drown the witch! Drown the witch! Drown the witch!”_ over and over and over again. It still echoed in her ears to this day. 

Her mother punished her severely when she got home and didn’t even care when Joan cried to her about what the kids did to her, saying that she deserved it. 

Joan became deathly afraid of water after that.

Year 11 was her last year of being in public school. On the second day, her so-called friends abandoned her and scribbled on her desk statements such as _“Go home”_ , _“Drop dead”_ , and _“Freak”_. Her mother pulled her out only two weeks in and they moved after her peers tried to “purify” her in the basement.  
She’s yet to see fire the same way since then.

There was a guttural sound to her left- Joan snapped out of her memories and looked around to see a wiry black raven feasting on some berries. 

It was so small. Smaller than any of the ravens she’s ever seen in religious pictures. It didn’t look as scary as those photos made them out to be, either, with its feathers puffed up in different directions and plumage falling out, leaving bare spots on its little body. It just looked…hungry.

Joan crawled out from under the tree she was sitting at on her hands and knees to get a better look. The raven may have been disheveled and bedraggled, but its feathers were so glossy, catching the light filtering down from the canopy of leaves overhead in just the right way to set off rainbows across its body. Its eyes were like pieces of shined onyx in its elegantly narrowed skull and were focused entirely on the tasty berries it was digging its dark beak into. This left it vulnerable to attack, and a jealous falcon swooped in without warning. 

Joan yelped as the falcon knocked the raven off of its branch and to the forest floor, landing right on top of it and poking it with sharp talons, trying to pluck the sprig of berries it had right out of its beak. The raven shrieked in pain and Joan jolted again, scrambling forward.

“Stop!” She cried. “Stop it!!”

The falcon let out an alarmed screech as it was suddenly flung from the raven and into the tree by an unseen force. It flapped off frantically in a cloud of brown and orange feathers, and Joan watched it go in shock, then marveled down at her hands, which felt like they had some kind of strength pulsing beneath them.

The raven flopped over on the ground a few times, preening and yanking on a few broken feathers. Joan whipped her head up and watched it flounder around worriedly.

“A-are you alright?” She whispered fearfully. She leaned in over the bird, slowly extending her hands toward it. Much to her surprise, the raven pressed against her palms, rubbing its head against them. She flinched a bit in shock, but when she saw that it wasn’t an attack on her, she relaxed and carefully scooped it up. “Your feathers are broken… Can you fly?”

The raven cawed, fluffing out its wings. Joan giggled softly and stroked its head gently. 

“You’re a very pretty bird. I’m sorry I don’t have any bread for you.”

The raven just cawed happily again.

They spent time just sitting together quietly, but soon, the inevitable came, and Joan stood up. 

“I-I’m sorry, but I should probably go now,” She said. “It’s already dusk. You need to get home, don’t you? I’m sorry I kept you here so long…”

She waved goodbye to the raven, managing to force a tiny but sad smile, and then walked away.

—

That night, she lay in the bathtub, staring listlessly up at the ceiling. Humid bathroom air wrapped around her, and her skin tingled. The prickle felt like goosebumps, but as it grew, it felt more like a fever—the tickling of it isn’t so bad, but the feeling that her skin is too hot for her own body, and she’d just like to take it off.

The room is dark, blue shadows leak out of the cracks between the tiles. Maybe it’s mold, maybe it’s just a fancy design; they’ve been there for as long as Joan can remember. Ghostly whispers flooded her ears. She slid down the smooth ceramic and held her breath until her eardrums are about to burst; this is a coping mechanism of sorts, she thinks. She might fall asleep underwater one day, peaceful and careless.

“Johanna!!” Her mother shouted.

A thick, soapy wave splashes out of the tub as Joan sat up, gasping and hyperventilating, slapping her palms against the surface. She’s angry all of a sudden, she barely suppressed her scream as the shelf with all the shampoos and shower gels comes crashing down, bottles scatter across the floor. 

At first, Joan thought that the devil was finally coming for her soul. Then, she thinks that it was an earthquake; the water was sloshing around the bathtub like a blackened poison. But, when Joan wiped the foam off her face, she realized that she’s the only one that’s quivering. 

There’s a vibration racking through her body, muscles tensed, and wet hair full of electricity as if she’s about to cause a short circuit. 

The shelf is lying on the tiles now, broken in two.

———

Joan had her nose in her old phone, taking in the information of telekinesis and magical powers she found online. She read it all in wonder, enthralled at the idea of psychic abilities. 

_I am special after all_ , She thought.

However, her reading was interrupted by loud muttering coming from on the stage. She tucked her phone away and stood up from where she had been perched on the black staircase leading up to the extra dressing room. She peeked out of the wing to see Aragon pacing and anxiously biting in her nails. When she noticed Joan watching her, her worried brown eyes lit up and she hurried over.

“Joan!” She cried. “Just the girl I wanted to see! Listen to me, Joan, I’ve got some sudden news. Violet, the understudy for Veronica, was in a car accident and broke her arm. She won’t be able to perform opening night, and because Jane got banned from that show, we have no one to play Veronica…” She trailed off for a moment, then smiled at Joan. “But. You are the backup understudy. You have to go on.”

That was sudden- Joan felt dizzy and overwhelmed. Her? Playing the main character? In a show that hundreds of people will watch?

“I-I—”

“I know you know all the lines and dances, Joan.” Aragon said. “I’ve heard you sing, too. You can do this!”

“I-I can’t do that. I can’t. I’m sorry.” Joan had difficulty mustering the iron will she wanted to inject into her voice, so she settled for backing away, putting distance between herself and Aragon’s saddened, disappointed expression. “I… L-look, I-I have to p-play the piano. A-and my mother w-wouldn’t let me anyway…” It wasn’t in her nature to lie, but Joan wanted out of this situation desperately.

Her day took an abrupt turn for the worse when she heard someone else call out Aragon’s name. She easily recognized the voice as that of Kitty. Knowing that there was no possible way to flee the scene now, Joan stayed rooted to one spot, wishing that she could just wither away into dust so that no one could bother her again.

Three teenagers ended up approaching- Kitty, Maggie, and a background actress around their age named Samantha. Kitty kept talking as they walked over.

“Catalina! I finally found you!” Although she did not acknowledge Joan’s presence, the stifled snickers of her companions were enough to shame her into staring down at her feet as she attempted to melt into the darkness of the wing.

“Mike is looking for you,” Maggie picked up on the conversation, referring to another actor who played JD’s dad.

Joan gulped and mentally pleaded for Aragon to leave, but she instead said, “Thank you. Tell him I’ll be there in a few minutes after I finish talking with Joan.”

“About what?” Samantha asked in genuine confusion.

“The show, of course,” Aragon answered. “Don’t you know that she’s the backup understudy for Veronica? She’s going to be going on during the opening night!” 

Although she didn’t immediately look up, Joan could clearly imagine Aragon smiling proudly in her direction while the others looked on in shock and disgust.

Kitty’s tone said it all. “What? What do you mean she’ll be performing with us!? Catalina, it’s dangerous!”

Aragon actually laughed. “Dangerous?”

Samantha threw in her opinion before that topic could be pressed further. “But wouldn’t it be better for Veronica to be played by a talented, pretty actress instead of…” Joan looked up in time to see that she was gesturing derisively at her.

“Another actress.” Aragon finished for her, her tone suddenly becoming a lot less pleasant. “She is as talented and pretty as Jane and Violet are. I’m sorry that they can’t perform. They can some other time. Do you understand?” 

“Not really, no,” Kitty snapped. 

“You know, Catalina,” Maggie began, “if you keep letting her lick all over your boots, people are gonna think that, you know, you’re messed up like she is.”

“And why is Joan so ‘messed up’ in the first place?” Aragon took a few steps toward Joan, putting herself between the outcast and the bullies.

“M-Miss Aragon, cut it out…” Joan whispered, seeing that the mocking grins have twisted into angered frowns. Bystanders were stopping what they were doing to watch, amused by the torment she was being subjected to. “I-I never agreed to perform…”

“She’s probably going to swap the blanks with real bullets,” Kitty said. “She’s going to kill us all!”

Rage flashed in Aragon’s eyes. She raised herself up to her full size, easily towering over Kitty. She looked like she wanted to rip the teenager’s head off.

“Don’t you dare talk about Joan that way!” She roared. “You guys— _everyone in this theater_ —keep putting her down and saying she deserves it, but why? Because she’s a little pale and has grey eyes? Is that all?”

“Why does it matter to _you_?”

“What?” Aragon looked over at Joan, visibly surprised at what she was saying.

The words kept bubbling to her lips as years of fury boiled over, burning the nearest target. “Why does it matter whether you think it’s wrong for them to make fun of me? I _am_ an outcast! I’m a freak who drove my mother to insanity! There, is that what you people want me to admit!?” Her fists were clenched and her whole body was shaking as her voice cracked and crumbled into sobs, but she was finally letting out her darkest feeling and there was no stopping the flood of tears and fears. “I admit it! I am the most disgusting creature alive, and the world would be a much better place if I was dead! Is _that_ why you’re trying so hard to be nice to me, Miss Aragon!? Do you just want some inferior waste of space to pity to make yourself look so angelic and kind!? I don’t _want_ your charity! Just spit on me like everyone else does, but don’t _lie_ to me!”

Joan gasped for air, now unable to see the world around her through her tears. There was an uneasy silence for a few seconds before some onlookers began to chuckle, and it quickly swelled up into mocking laughter. It was just another day in the life of an outcast, and soon Aragon would show her true colors and–  
And suddenly, Joan was pulled into a hug, and she could feel long curly hair brushing against her. She fought against this embrace. 

“L-let me go, M-M-Miss Aragon! I-I don’t want your p-p-pity!”

“No. Oh no, Joan, honey, I’m not pitying you just to boost my own reputation.” Aragon’s own tone had softened once more, although her voice was just loud enough to let the other teenagers hear. “Not once have you shown me that you deserve to be shunned. You have always been so kind, and you’ve never gotten mad even during her harshest rehearsals, and you’re definitely _not_ a monster. I told you, don’t ever let anyone convince you that you are.”

“Please let me go…” Joan’s voice dropped into a whisper, and she knew she didn’t mean her words now.

“I will, if you really want, but just know this first: Joan, you are truly the most wonderful person I have ever known, and I am glad that I got to meet you, sweetheart.” 

Joan didn’t know how to respond. The words kept repeating over and over in her head, and she felt her stomach churn like it always did when she was about to cry. Yet, for some reason, she couldn’t help but grin as she dissolved into sobs once more.

———

Cathy was about to check out with the groceries when she noticed the girl in the makeup aisle, haphazardly putting on some dark red lipstick in one of the small mirrors. It’s caught the attention of a few other people, too, ones that have more judgmental looks on their faces, so she hurried over to the struggling girl.

“Hey,” She greeted kindly.

Joan flinched so hard she nearly dropped the lipstick and had to awkwardly stumble forward to catch it. She whipped her head around to Cathy, eyes wide, then she’s glancing around everywhere. It’s like she was shocked that Cathy was talking to her in such a public place.

 _Oh, poor girl,_ Cathy thought sadly. _She knows we’re friends—I hope—but she still worries about us being seen together by other people…_

  
“H-hi,” Joan stuttered. Her eyes were on a young boy who yelped and ran off when their gazes met. 

“You come here often?” Cathy joked, hoping to strike up some kind of conversation and get Joan into her comfort zone, but the girl just shrugged and mumbled something she couldn’t quite understand. “You, uh…have a little trouble coloring in the lines, huh?”

Joan blinked. Cathy gestured to her mouth. Joan turned to the mirror and jolted when she saw that the lipstick was covering more than just her lips. She viciously scrubbed it off with the back of her hand.

“Maybe you should try something a little less drastic,” Cathy chuckled. She began to look through the selection of lipstick. “I’m assuming this is for your big Veronica Sawyer debut? Congrats, by the way! I’m so proud of you for accepting! But that shade of red doesn’t go with her character AT ALL. Try…this one!” 

She plucked up a lighter crimson shade and took off the cap. Joan recoiled away when she cupped a hand under her chin. She frowned.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” She murmured. “I’m not going to hurt you.” 

Joan looked her up and down, which hurt Cathy a little, but she didn’t let the injured expression show on her face. She understood why the girl was still so cautious, even after befriending her. 

“There we go…” Cathy cooed proudly when Joan rested her chin in her outstretched hand. She carefully began to apply the lipstick to her soft, pale lips, making them pop with the scarlet color and not look as much like a corpse’s mouth. “See, you put it on the bow of your lips like so… And now rub them together.”

Joan did as she was told, now with a new look of adoration in her eyes. Caution was lurking just behind it, though, and she was poised and ready to run is necessary.

 _Don’t you see that I just want to help you?_ Cathy said in her head. _That I would never hurt you?_

“Perfect!” Cathy grinned at her. “You’ll obviously need more makeup for the show, of course. Like, A LOT or else the spotlights will make you look super washed out and you do NOT want to see what that looks like. It’s awful.” She laughed slightly, getting the tiniest hint of a smile from Joan. “Oh, Joan. I’m so happy you get to be in this play! It’s going to be amazing and, don’t worry, I’ll be with you every step of the way. The only thing I’m worried about is Dead Girl Walking. Now THAT is gonna be a little w—”

“Why?”

Cathy blinked at Joan. “Well, you’re sixteen, I’m twenty-six, the song is about sex…”

“N-no- why—are you happy—for me?” Joan asked, her voice soft and tight.

 _Because you deserve it!_ Cathy’s mind cried. _Because you deserve this more than anyone in that entire theater! Because you deserve to be looked up to and adored and loved by people! Why can’t you see that? Why can’t you just trust me?_

  
But instead she said, “I just thought you’d have a good time.”

“Why?” Joan asked again, even softer this time.

Cathy was silent. Joan’s silver eyes pierce directly into her soul.

“Why do you care if I have a good time?” Joan went on. She wasn’t looking to make Cathy feel guilty, but she was genuinely curious. “I mean- You and Anne—you’ve never talked to me before, and I’ve been in the production for months. You’re probably just talking to me now because your friends aren’t around, and you only do it at the theater to make yourself look better. A-and I know you let me stay at your house yesterday and the day before, and I really appreciated it, but—”

 _She still thinks Anne and I are out to get her._ Cathy thought. _Even after all the kindness we’ve shown to her._ She frowned. _She’s been hurt much worse than I thought…_

  
She could see it now: Joan wasn’t just shy and anxious, she was also fragile—too fragile for the awful things she’s been through.

“Look, if you don’t want to go—”

“No—” Joan cut Cathy off hurriedly, suddenly looking very panicked. “I-I want to go. I want to perform, I just— I wish I got to perform because I was good and not just because I was the last option. And I also wish I had friends because people liked me and didn’t just feel bad for me.”

“You are good, Joan.” Cathy said. “That’s why you were cast in the first place!”

“As a backup understudy for the first one.” Joan pointed out. “And everyone forgot. Even me.”

“And it’s not a pity thing.” Cathy hurriedly went on. “I don’t feel sorry for you.”  
That got Joan to laugh. “Yeah, you do.” She said. “You feel sorry for me because you think you’re better than me.”

“No I don’t.” Cathy said, slightly ruffled.

“It’s okay,” Joan laughed again. “Everyone does.”

 _I hate that that’s true._ Cathy thought somberly. _I hate that people don’t realize how wonderful you are._

  
“I really like this color,” Joan said, picking the crimson lipstick up. “Thank you—f-for helping me pick it out.”

“Yeah,” Cathy said softly. “No problem.”

“Oh, and Miss Cathy?” Joan stopped on her way to the checkout line. She smiled wryly. “I’m really excited for our performance together!”

———

The weather had been perfect: cold and windy, misty, and serene. But then another storm shoved its way in, devouring the silky sterling clouds in shades of dark blue and bruise purple and turning the sky into a grumbling, fire-breathing weather monster that completely ruined Joan’s plans of telling her mother about her new role in the play in a peaceful atmosphere.

A bolt of lightning sizzled through the sky, flickering burning white light through the dining room. The candles lit on the table cast an ominous shade of red-orange up onto the overhead crucifix. Jesus’ face suddenly seemed a lot darker than it usually was. Joan swallowed thickly and turned her head back down to her plate.

“You’ve hardly touched your dinner, Joan.” Bernadette said. “Have some pie.”

“It makes me get pimples, mama.” Joan muttered bitterly.

“Nonsense.” Bernadette said dismissively. “As Peter says, the only beauty that matters is the precious light that comes from within.”

Joan struggled not to roll her eyes. 

“Mama, don’t you think it’s time I try to be like other girls?”

Bernadette wrinkled her nose. “Whatever are you going on about, Joan? Being different is the Lord’s blessing.”

“People think I’m weird.” Joan said. “They call me names and make fun of me.”  
“Well then just don’t listen to them.” Bernadette said. “It is written, ‘he who hears my voice alone shall be saved’.” 

She seemed pleased with herself. That made Joan mad. She can feel her powers burn painlessly beneath her skin like molten gold.

“Mama, I’m in the play.” Joan finally blurted out. She looked at her mother through a wince but was surprised to find that Bernadette looked intrigued. “Miss Aragon told me today.” She went on warily. “I’m the lead. I-I wanted to know if you wanted to go. To watch me.”

Bernadette placed her fork down lightly with a piece of meat still stabbed on it. She studied Joan in a way that made the girl want to wiggle out of her skin.

“I—” Joan faltered. Why wasn’t her mother saying anything? Why wasn’t she proud of her? “Please, mama. I really want you to be there. I want you to see me shine.”

“It always starts like this,” Bernadette muttered. “With…parties. Get togethers.” She stared hard at Joan. “Will there be boys there?”

“I-I don’t know.” Joan said. “Probably. There’s boys in the cast. But only two main ones.” Her fingers twitched. She wanted to mess with her necklace. “It’s okay, mama. There’s nothing to worry about! It’s gonna be fun, you’ll see! I’ll get to show everyone that I’m not weird and creepy! I’ll be able to sing and dance and-”

  
Bernadette lifted her teacup and flung its contents into Joan’s face. Joan gasped in shock and at the heat on her skin. 

“There is everything to worry about, Johanna.” Bernadette hissed lowly.

Joan spit some of the tea out, not caring if her mother thought it was gross, and grabbed a napkin to wipe her face. She sniffled into it but did her best to bite back the tears that so badly wanted to come free.

“Mama, please,” She whispered.

“Don’t you think I don’t know what will happen?” Bernadette said. “When you get up and start to sing and dance and flaunt your body for everyone to see. Oh, how the boys will begin to chase you. They’ll make promises and will break your heart, Johanna. And everyone else will laugh at you while you fall apart.”

“Not this time. Th-they’ll like me!” Joan said. “Everyone isn’t bad, mama. Everything’s not a sin.”

“It’s the smell of the blood.” Bernadette said, not even listening to Joan. “It’s the smell of that will drive them mad. They will chase you like a whore.”

“No!” Joan cried. Her power pulsed in her hands when she covered her ears. Bernadette walked around the table and grabbed her by the arms, shaking her.

“After the blood comes, the boys follow, sniffing and slobbering, wondering where the sweet smell comes from.” Bernadette cooed awfully.

“Stop it, mama,” Joan wept. Her stomach turns in disgust. “Please stop it…!”

“Like dogs! They’ll maw you like dogs!” Bernadette shouted, shaking her daughter harder. “You are not going.”

“I already said I would.” Joan said.

“Then tell them you changed your mind.” Bernadette said. “And say goodbye because we’re moving. We’re moving and never coming back so you won’t have some play messing up your head!” She released Joan roughly and whirled around, marching into the kitchen. “The storm’s going to get harder tonight. I need to make sure all the windows are secure. You go to your closet and pray for forgiveness.”

“No, mama!” Joan cried, lunging forward and latching onto one of her mother’s arms desperately. “Mama, p-please! Talk to me!”

Bernadette said nothing. Joan held on tighter, struggling to keep her pace.

“Please, mama! Please!!” Joan’s cry raised several pitches, and Bernadette let out a shout of fright as all the kitchen cabinets flew open and slammed shut several times while various items lifted in the air and spun around wildly on an axis.

Silence filled the house.

“Witch.” Bernadette uttered in horror. “Those are Satan’s powers.”

“It has nothing to do with Satan, mama.” Joan said. Her voice is drained and wet with tears. She let go of her mother, watching her reel away from her in instinctive fear. She was too tired to be hurt or offended by this. “It’s me. If I concentrate hard enough, I can move things.” To prove her point, she looked at a cup of water, and it flew around the kitchen in a full circle before setting back down lightly without spilling a drop. 

“Satan is clever,” Bernadette said. Her eyes are wide and out of focus. 

“I’m not the only one,” Joan said. “There’s others like me. I’ve read about them.”

“You must renounce this power!” Bernadette went on crazily. “You must never use it!”

Joan looked at her mother for a long time, her eyes so empty from the pain that was constantly infected in her body, and said, “I’m going, mama. And there’s nothing you can do to stop me.” 

Her mother knew this. She could see the paralyzing fear of realization in her eyes. A weak smile twitched on Joan’s lips.

“This conversation is over.”

———

“Here, piggy piggy piggy,” Jane’s broad-shouldered, crazy-eyed boyfriend crooned. “I’m gonna bash your head in!”

“Just do it already!” Jane barked.

“It smells,” Maggie commented.

“I’m getting wet,” Kitty whined.

“Boohoo, you poor little baby,” Maggie’s boyfriend, Anthony, snapped.

Lightning blitzed across the sky, illuminating the five figures standing in the pigpen of an outskirt London farm. Rain was pelting down on them. Muck sloshed and slobbered around their boots. A second flash of lightning caused the knife Jane was holding to gleam brightly. 

“Come on, you two,” Jane said to the boys, tapping the blade on the fence impatiently. “Hurry up before anyone sees us.”

Anthony, despite his wolf-like face and beady eyes, looked down at the pigs skittering around his feet and then at the sledgehammer in his hands sickly. He shoved it to Henry, backing up.

“I can’t do it.” He said, making Henry and Maggie both roll their eyes.

“Pussy,” Maggie muttered.

“I expect nothing else from a little boy,” Henry said. He hefted the sledgehammer in his hands and gazed hungrily at the pigs. “Jane. Pick one.”  
Jane perked up and gave him a confused look.

“Pick one that looks like her.” Henry clarified with a bloodthirsty smile.

Kitty and Maggie both cooed in awe at the idea. Anthony got a dark look in his eyes. Jane smirked wickedly. 

“Pig’s blood for a pig,” Kitty giggled.

“That one.” Jane pointed her flashlight at a plump pig that was more white than pink. 

Henry nodded and crossed over to it, corralling it away from the others. It looked up at him with innocent grey eyes, and he swung the sledgehammer over his head and smashed its skull to pieces. 

“Ewww,” Kitty squealed almost as loud as the pig. 

“Cool,” Maggie murmured at the same time. 

They all hopped into the pen as Henry rested a bucket underneath the dead pig’s fat neck. He gestured to it for Jane, and she plunged her knife right into the soft flesh of the throat, slicing open a gash so wide it looked like a smiling second mouth. Blood squirted out onto her and Henry’s face. Behind her, Kitty turned and vomited into the muck. 

“Good job, babe.” Henry said, kissing Jane’s bloody cheek. 

“Thank you.”

“This is going to be awesome!” Maggie exclaimed.

“A night we’ll never forget!” Kitty agreed, having recovered from puking.

Jane watched the blood pour out from the pig’s neck and collect in the bucket. She smiled darkly. 

“Indeed it will be.”


	5. A Night We’ll Never Forget

It was the opening night of Heathers: The Musical and the sun was just starting its descent in the sky, bleeding pastel pink across grey-blue clouds. There was no big storm in the forecast that day, just mist and fog, which was good because thunder and lightning might knock out the lights and ruin all the tech.

It was just one of those evenings so refreshing and peaceful that you HAD to be doing something nice. The sunset reached in through your window and dragged you towards it, flinging you out and out and out into the beautiful, mind-numbing twilight. You had to drive or hike or hang out with friends because an evening this perfect may never come again.

And sometimes you had to make sure an overly-cautious girl got a taste of such exhilaration because the mist was glittering and the sky was glorious and the setting sun probably that nothing bad could possibly happen. 

“Do you think she’s okay?” Anne asked as she and Cathy sat outside the ivy-swathed house. She’d been more worried about their girl than herself since the moment she woke up, and for a good reason, too. Cathy didn’t blame her.

“I’m sure she is,” Cathy answered.

“Yes, but she’s only had a few days of rehearsals. What if she—”

Cathy set a hand in her girlfriend’s and squeezed it. “Take a breath, Annie.” She said. “She’s proved to us that she knows what she’s doing. Hell, she probably knows my lines better than I do! I’m sure she’s doing just fine.”

( “I can see your dirty pillows,” Bernadette said bitterly.

“They’re breasts, mama.” Joan corrected, not looking up from where she was testing necklaces to her skin tone. Jewelry was few and far between in the house, so she had to make do with whatever she could find because something told her that the theater wouldn’t want her touching any of their accessories with her ‘grimy freak hands’ if she didn’t have to. “Every girl has them. Even you. And I’m just in a tank top to get ready, but my costume will cover more.” She paused. “You’ll see that if you come. I have a spot reserved for you.”

Joan can already imagine herself onstage, boldly and amazingly belting out her lines and being watched in awe by hundreds of people. Even better than that, she could imagine her mother being there, eyes sparkling with pride, grinning widely, and at the end howling through the applause, “Did everyone see? That’s my daughter! My wonderful, glorious, marvelous baby girl, Joan! Oh, how amazing and talented she is! I am truly blessed to have her! The happiest mum in the whole entire world!!!!”

But, instead, Bernadette is shaking her head frantically, not at all looking proud or happy to be her mother at that very moment. 

“No, no,” She said. “And you can’t go, either!”

“It’s too late, mama,” Joan turned away from her mother and slipped on a jacket. “I’m going. My friends are expecting me.”

“Friends?” Bernadette actually choked out a high pitched, startled laugh. “Is that really what you think those two women are to you, darling? I’m sure they care about you so very much. Do you think anyone would cry if your decapitated head was dropped in their hands? Admit it: nobody loves you the way you are except me. You are _my baby._ That’s always been true, and it always will be true.”

“No, it’s not!!” Joan cried. Her powers pulsed like a racing heartbeat in her veins. “There are other people who like me! Miss Cathy and Miss Anne! Miss Aragon, too!” She took a few deep breaths, trying to calm herself. She didn’t want to blow her voice out before the show. “They aren’t like the others, mama. They’re good. I know they are.”

“But wouldn’t they all change you if they could?” Bernadette said, causing a starling, uneasy revelation to zigzag through Joan. “They would strip away your lovely weirdness and reshape your mind until it’s to their liking. But I love every inch of you, my perfect darling little disaster.”

 _Would they do all of that?_ Joan wondered. _Would Miss Cathy and Miss Anne and Miss Aragon change me if they got the chance?_

For a moment, she was almost swayed to her mother’s side, but then she remembered something.

 _I wouldn’t blame them…_ _I would want to change me, too._

“I want to be normal,” Joan said defiantly. “So I wouldn’t care.” 

She turned away from her mother and marched into the kitchen to get a glass of water, but still couldn’t go past the crucifix without casting it a fearful look.

“They’re all going to laugh at you!”

Something snapped in Joan’s chest.

“NO!!” She roared.

She whirled around to her mother and extended a shaking hand, seizing Bernadette in her place. She bared her teeth in a flash of rage.

“No, mama.” She said lowly. “Not this time. You aren’t going to ruin this for me.”

She telekinetically pushed Bernadette backward into the prayer closet as pieces of furniture rose into the air around her with her growing anger.

“You’re going to—stay in there—until I leave.” Joan said. She jerked her head, and the door slammed shut.

“Johanna! Stop this at once!! Stop this devilry!!”)

“Yeah, you’re right,” Anne nodded. “She’s going to be okay.”

“Come on, let’s go get her.”

The two of them stepped out of the car and walked up the front porch. When they knocked on the door, they heard a giant crash from within the house, like the roof had just caved in. They exchanged looks, suddenly worried again. Joan peeked out a moment later.

“Hey!” Anne greeted her with a smile. “Everything okay? Did your ceiling just collapse or something?”

“…Yes.”

Cathy blinked. Anne laughed.

“Cool. Can I see?”

“…No.”

Joan slid outside, and, for a brief second, Cathy and Anne could see into her house at all the furniture strewn on the ground. The door shut quickly, and Joan smiled up at them.

“Come on!” She said with a new bout of eagerness. “Come on! Come on!”

“Someone’s excited,” Cathy chuckled as they all walked to the car.

“We’re coming, darling,” Anne called at the same time.

“Darling!” Joan echoed in a gleeful voice. “Darling! That’s me!” She hurled herself at Anne and latched onto her, nuzzling into her chest.

“Oof—” Anne staggered backward with a laugh. “Easy there, kiddo. I’m not as young as I used to be.”

Joan giggled. “You’re not THAT old!” She gave Anne one more nuzzle before galavanting her way over to the car and leaping inside, leaving Anne and Cathy exchanging amused looks.

The drive to the theater was spent with Joan murmuring her lines to herself and fidgeting in the backseat, and upon arriving, she practically flew inside, darting straight to the dressing room she was getting to use. She immediately got to applying makeup and fixing her hair, but she appeared to have a hard time doing everything correctly, so Cathy stepped in while Anne went to go get ready.

It didn’t take long for Joan’s anxiety to kick in. As Cathy was pinning back locks of her long blonde hair, she could feel her start to tremble.

“Joan?” She asked. “Everything okay, sweetheart?”

“Y-yeah,” Joan stammered. “Just a little n-nervous.”

Cathy smiled sympathetically at her in the mirror. “I know that feeling. It’ll be okay, I promise. I’ll be right there with you the whole time.”

“N-nervous about Dead Girl Walking,” Joan mumbled, fidgeting with her jacket sleeve.

Cathy barked a laugh. “Yeah, me too.” She admitted. “I’ll be more hands-off, okay? I won’t grab you anywhere.”

“B-but won’t that r-ruin the scene?” Joan looked up at her.

“Your comfort is more important to me than the enjoyment of the audience.” Cathy told her. “It’ll all be okay. You’re gonna do great.”

There was a knock on the doorframe. The two of them turned to see Aragon in the doorway, smiling. Cathy greeted her, then slid out of the room to get ready. 

“Miss Aragon,” Joan said. “You look so pretty!”

Aragon laughed lightly, gazing down at the suit she was wearing. “Thank you, Joan. You look beautiful.”

“Oh—thank you.” Joan blushed. “Although I don’t, not really, but thank you anyway.”

A small frown twitched momentarily on Aragon’s lips before she wiped it off. “I just wanted to come and check on you. How are you feeling? You look like you didn’t sleep at all.”

Even with foundation and blush on her face, the dark bags shadowed under Joan’s eyes were still visible. It was worrying, but what came out of Joan’s mouth next was even worse.

“Oh, yeah,” She said. “I was just a little nervous. But I’m okay. Trust me, I’ve stayed awake longer. When I was fifteen, I was having these awful nightmares and got so scared of them that I stopped sleeping. Whenever I would start to nod off, I put this cross that my mother would—heat up—” She faltered for a moment, wincing at something that didn’t have to do with the current story, but hurried to continue, “—and uhh, I would heat it up and press it to my skin until the pain woke me up.” And then she rolled her sweat pants up enough to reveal an old, cross-shaped blister on her thigh.

Aragon shuddered, staring at it in horror before it was concealed again. It was awful that nightmares could push a child to such an extreme, but she had to give Joan some props for her bravery to burn pain into the body that betrayed her by daring to be tired. But that didn’t erase how sickening it was.

“Oh, Joan—”

“Oh dear,” Joan frowned at her, cutting her off. “You’re getting that funny look on your face again. The one you and Miss Anne and Miss Cathy make when you get all concerned.” She tilted her head, then gently touched Aragon’s hand. “It’s okay, Miss Aragon, trust me. If I’m willingly telling you about it, then it’s not that bad.”

That didn’t comfort Aragon at all because it meant that Joan had gone through things even worse than burning herself to avoid nightmares.

But Aragon nodded, not wanting to stress the girl out by prodding her, especially right before a major performance.

“Alright,” She said in a half sigh.

Joan gave her a wry smile.

“Well, you better get into your costume,” Aragon said, standing up. 

“Oh!” Joan jumped to her feet. “R-right!”

Aragon smiled at her. “When you’re done, come down to the wings to get your mic set up. And break a leg! You’ll do great, honey!”

Joan nodded and turned to her first costume once Aragon left the room: a long brown skirt with flowers on it, a cream shirt, and a blue jean jacket. She wore her primary costume, a blue checkered skirt and a lighter blue cardigan with an azure undershirt, underneath it for quick change reasons. After putting everything on, she was about to walk out when she paused and looked at herself in the mirror.

She… _did_ look pretty. 

Except for—

“Sorry, mama,” Joan whispered, taking off her cross necklace and setting it aside on the makeup table. 

The backstage was a mess when she stepped down the staircase leading up to the dressing rooms. Joan felt like she’d been flung into a war movie with the amount of running around and screaming that was going on around her, and she could already feel beads of sweat forming on her forehead in the hot, thick air of the wings. Footsteps trampled heavily, as people fretted over costumes, over makeup, over props…

Over the fact that the theater freak was playing the lead role.

And over the fact that one of their actors was lying on the ground, writhing and wailing in agony so loud that the early birds already filing into the house could probably hear.

“What’s going on?! What happened?!” The sound director squawked, flapping over. She was done up in way too much makeup and jewelry for someone who wasn’t going to be seen by the audience. “WHAT IS WRONG WITH HIM?!”

“I-I don’t know!” A stagehand cried. “He-he fell and—”

“Oh god—” Another said in a gag. “That is _bad_.”

“Kinda cool,” Commented her friend, earning her an elbow to the ribs. “Ouch! Unnecessary!”

The actor on the floor howled.

“This is a catastrophe,” A techie muttered to the far left, the boy shaking with visible distress, running a hand through his newly greasy locks. His eyebrows were drawn in considerably more than usual, and he looked like he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. A girl at his side looked remarkably similar in her emotional state but didn’t move from her place of wrapping a mic around Cleves.

The whole cast was crowded together, in various stages of mentally prepared, gawking down at someone that Joan couldn’t see. There was still an hour until the show began, but in theater, an hour was essentially five minutes if you were stressed out enough. And clearly, everyone was. Maggie and Kitty didn’t stand far apart, despite Kitty’s current position of being fretted over by two technicians, who were trying very hard not to look over at the current commotion. Russel and Luke, the Kurt and Ram, looked like the epitome of the American jock stereotype- white shirts with varsity jackets slung over them, jeans too baggy and hair too messy for the current decade. Cleves looked as calm as she always was, seeming out of place considering the hectic nature of the environment, and Anne was the only actor who didn’t look nervous about performing with Joan or about what was going on. In fact, she gave her a small, warm smile that Joan couldn’t help but return.

But then the injured actor cried out again, and she snapped back into awareness.

She stepped towards the crowd. Several people saw her coming and cleared off quickly. One stagehand that was even younger than her nearly fainted at the sight of her. She brushed the arm of a background actor, and he shuddered so badly she genuinely thought she had hurt him. 

_Oh._ She realized grimly. _They don’t just think I’m a freak._ She frowned. _They think I’m a monster. They’re_ SCARED _of me._

Anger boiled up inside of her for a moment, but she stamped it down. She didn’t love that burbling feeling of vengeance rising within her. She just wanted to hug them, all of them, and tell them not to be scared, that she wasn’t scary at all, not anymore—not ever. She wanted to be their _friends_. Because this performance was going to be the birth of New Joan, Ordinary Joan, Loved Joan, and everyone was going to be begging on their knees to be her best friend by the end of it. 

That thought made her absolutely giddy, and she nearly did a happy dance but managed to stop herself. Doing such a thing wouldn’t be appropriate at the moment, especially when she was gazing down at a moaning, groaning, broken-looking young man.

He was lying at the bottom of the Stairs of Death, as they’re called, sprawled in a position that looked extremely uncomfortable. But not as uncomfortable as the angle his right arm is bent into. With a wince, Joan realized it looked slightly similar to how her arm had looked when she got pushed down the staircase at school.

It was Mike, the man who played both JD’s dad and the principal—and was the only actor they had who knew those parts since it never occurred to anyone that even minor parts may need understudies.

“Fuck!” Cried the sound director. “What happened?!”

“I think he fell,” Observed Cleves calmly.

Mike groaned as if to prove that theory.

“Oh, you bumbling idiot!” The sound director snapped at the poor man.

“Hey!” Joan barked. “Don’t be mean! It’s not his fault!”

Everyone looked at her in surprise, including Mike, who halted his process of squirming miserably to blink up at her. Even she was a little shocked. Wasn’t she supposed to hate these people? 

“It definitely is his fault,” The sound director hissed. “Or is it yours? Did YOU do this?”

Well, she definitely hated her, that’s for sure.

“I bet she did,” Maggie said helpfully, and Kitty nodded in agreement at her side.

And she absolutely hated those two.

“No, I didn’t!” Joan said, wounded. “I don’t hurt people!”

“Yeah, I can vouch for her, Rachel,” Anne spoke up. “She wasn’t anywhere near the steps when Mike fell.”

Rachel narrowed her eyes at Joan, not really believing Anne’s words. “Well,” She dropped the accusations for the moment. “What do we do?”

“Call 999.” Anne said.

“No!” Rachel yelped. “We can’t! We don’t have an understudy for him!”

“So you expect him to perform with a broken arm?” Anne struck back. “Look at him! He can’t even sit up!”

Joan peered closer at Mike’s arm and noticed that it was at an abnormal position slightly above the shoulder. He wasn’t moving it at all, either, like all connection to the rest of the body had been cut off…or displaced.

“It’s not broken,” She said. “It’s dislocated.”

All eyes turned to her again. She quickly went on, pointing at the injured arm, “Look at the way he’s moving. His arm should be moving like that, too, but it isn’t even twitching. Plus, it’s not swollen and bruising. And listen to his screams—he’s in a lot of pain. Broken bones burn, but they wouldn’t cause that much distress.” She looked around at all of them, then said again, “It’s dislocated. And I know how to fix it.”

Mike looked ill at the thought of her touching him, and she barely managed to keep herself from giving him an injured look. Everyone else, however, weren’t spared from it when they noisily began to get suspicious and skeptical of her information. 

“How do you know that?” Asked one stagehand with a bowl haircut.

“I’ve had my arm broken and dislocated before,” Joan answered, remembering the time a bully shoved her against the wall hard enough to jar her left arm out of its socket when she was fourteen. “And I was able to help myself. I know what to do.”

“Why should we trust you?” Said another stagehand warily, eyeing Joan as if she thought she was going to rip Mike’s arm off and beat him with it.

“What other choice do you have?” Joan said. “Unless you’d like to go one without a father for JD and a coach.”

Somehow, to all of them, that alternative seemed even worse than her tearing off an innocent man’s limb and pummeling him with it. Mike realized this, too, and didn’t look very happy about it, giving them all an injured look.

“You’re right,” A guitarist from the pit said. “We should probably trust her.”

“What?” Kitty said sharply. “Are you alright?”

“Of course,” The guitarist said, giving Kitty a weird look. She tipped her head towards Joan. “We should let her try, right? And if she fails, well, that’ll give us more of a reason to despise her.”

Joan kind of wished she had left that part out, but appreciated the trust nonetheless.

“Yes,” She said, deciding to appeal to their hatred and fear for just a moment. “If I make him worse, you can—you can hate me all you’d like. Better yet: I’ll quit. How does that sound?”

That seemed like a dream come true to several of the younger cast members and techies, but a nightmare to Anne, who gave Joan a wide-eyed look and shook her head at her. Joan smiled gently and lightly touched her shoulder, then approached Mike. He tried to wiggle away when she crouched down next to him.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” She whispered to him, and he looked up into her bright silver eyes. He must have seen something in her because he nodded a moment later and stopped moving. “Thank you.” She paused. “Okay, well—slight change to what I said. This WILL hurt, but it’ll make you better, I promise.” 

Mike went even paler but just nodded again. Joan thanked him again, then gently took hold of his arm, wracking her memory to remember how she had relocated her arm. That was the time, she recalled, that she realized that she had to start nursing her own wounds because nobody else was going to do it for her.

 _What am I doing?_ She thought. _I’m the problem, not the solution._

But then she looked down at Mike’s pained eyes and saw herself in the deep shade of blue—hurt and wanting help. So, she took a deep breath and pushed upwards.

Mike let out a yelp of shock and pain, jerked, and then stopped. Joan pulled her hands back quickly so he could see his normal-looking shoulder. He tried to move it, wincing when it bent at his muscles’ command, then gave her a look of surprise and awe. She smiled at him.

“All done!” She beamed, then turned her head to the crowd around her. “See? I did it!”

Nobody gave her a hug or cheered for her success, but she did get several appraising and approved looks, which was good enough for her. 

“It’s probably gonna hurt for a few weeks,” She said to Mike. “Definitely take painkillers before the show, and don’t do anything crazy with it if you don’t have to.”

Mike nodded. “Th…thank you, Joan.” He said.

Something blissful fluttered inside her stomach. Someone said her name! In a way that wasn’t disgusted or full of hatred!!

“Good work, kiddo,” Anne praised Joan when she returned to her side. “You’re amazing.”

Joan blushed. “Thanks.”

She was SO going to have friends now. These people have seen that she’s not dangerous! Well, unless you consider unnatural psychic powers as dangerous, but that can just be a perk to being her friend! She can move things with her MIND!! Maybe even do more things. Maybe she could help people.

She glanced down at her hands and wondered about all the amazing things she could do with her powers. She could help major constructions by lifting heavy objects without breaking a sweat. She could save people from burning buildings by levitating them when they fall. She may even be able to cure cancer and end world hunger!! Of course, telekinesis couldn’t do that, but maybe she had other abilities that could. 

She could be a hero.

And then Kitty’s gazed snapped over to her, and Joan didn’t feel like a hero at all. Just a worm trapped beneath the talons of a hawk. She instinctively shifted uncomfortably, tugging on her skirt to distract herself. Even after helping a man with his dislocated shoulder, Kitty and Maggie still looked at her as if she had just murdered their parents in front of them.

“Joan, you look…” Kitty trailed off with a sneer, still staring at Joan’s slightly pudgy legs and the thigh highs that concealed them. 

“Great.” Anne cut in, glaring at her cousin in some sort of warning. “She looks great.”

“Not the word I would have used,” Kitty muttered, and Maggie giggled obnoxiously at her side.

Joan grit her teeth, but her flash of anger jolted away with a stagehand shoved the notebook she needed for the opening number into her hands silently. He glanced up at her for just a moment, then wrinkled his nose and scurried off to help someone else.

Joan felt more and more uncomfortable as she was prepared for the show. A few crew members, ones that still thought she was repulsive even after helping Mike, hadn’t wanted to touch her to put her mic on, so Cathy did it when she came down, apologizing to Joan softly for how stupid people were being. Joan, however, was too focused on all the stares she was getting. Out of the corner of her eyes, she swore she could see the director’s jaw drop when he saw her for the first time. He, at the very least, blinked twice at the sight of Joan, and the girl felt a small ounce of victory from that resolution. Of course, that good feeling was immediately washed away when the reality of the situation set in.

In less than five minutes, she was going to be performing in front of hundreds of people, some of which probably knew her and hated her, having not studied the script or the blocking/choreography with the intention of playing the character she was about to parade around as. And then, if that wasn’t enough, she had to have fake sex on stage with another woman and probably kiss her and attempt to have some sort of chemistry with her despite her girlfriend also being in the production. And, most importantly, her mother wasn’t there to support her through it all.

Holy fuck. Joan was going to die.

The stage lights soon dimmed, and she could hear Aragon’s voice over the intercom, reminding people to switch off their mobile devices. Joan wished that she heard Aragon say that a fire had started in the building so she wouldn’t have to step on stage, but no such luck. She felt someone nudge her forward onto the darkened stage as soon as the audience quietened, and Joan sucked a breath in. This was it.

“Break a leg!” Anne whispered somewhere from the darkness of the wings.

Joan took one more big breath.

And then she walked on stage.

She could barely feel her legs as she walked, as though she was working on autopilot.

“Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name,” Joan murmured to herself, far too quietly for the mic to pick up (she didn’t even think it was on yet), “Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in Heaven.” She stood in the position she had seen Jane stand in so many times before. “Amen.”

There was no turning back now, was there? She was in this for the long run. She was really doing this. As everyone else settled into position, she prepared herself to recite the lines she knew so well but never imagined she would be speaking.

“September 1st, 1989. Dear diary…” 

As the music kicked in, the stage lights flickered on, nearly blinding her. She suddenly much preferred her nice, dark pit, but the bright light blocked out her vision of most of the audience, which she was so very thankful for. She couldn’t hear a single snicker or a mumble of disapproval, her voice didn’t crack, and she stood in the correct position. 

Maybe this wouldn’t be as bad as she thought.

The beginning of ‘Beautiful’ passed like a dream, though she struggled to contain her giddiness as stage fright slowly melted away, and she fully got into her role. It was a lot different being part of the ensemble, actually hearing lines being spoken directly in her face, than being in the pit where she just vaguely watched and frantically played music. It was only when she had to speak to confront Kitty that she felt her nerves kick in.

Because Kitty was looking at her like she wanted to fucking kill her.

Kitty, like Cleves and Anne, was dressed in a preppy, rich girl outfit from the ’80s, looking like an absolute vision in yellow. And she was glaring at Joan as though the other was wearing a trash bag, and Joan wasn’t wholly convinced it was a character choice. 

So much for McNamara being the slightly good Heather.

Something about the look in Kitty’s eyes, though, was different than her usual leer. This seemed…personal. Even when Kitty was saying compliments to Joan’s character, there was an edge of spite that hadn’t been there before Joan had switched roles.

Joan’s musing was cut short by Cleves’ voice and Kitty’s hand brushing over her chest.

“And you know, this could be beautiful.” Cleves sang in her traditional deep bellow, a sardonic hint in her voice that only a few seemed to catch. 

Kitty’s hand on Joan’s chest trailed across her body as Cleves sang, putting a cold emphasis on every time she said “beautiful”, as though pointing out to Joan that she was speaking something far from the truth. Joan barely had time to register this before she croaked out her line and was ushered backstage for her quick change.

Joan’s protective shroud—the skirt and cream shirt and coat—was ripped off of her before she had a chance to shrug it off. Her hair was brushed painfully into a more pristine style and more makeup was applied roughly before being shoved back onstage so hard she nearly fell flat on her face. She regained her balance, luckily not being seen by the locker set pieces, and waited.

What was with Kitty? Was she cranky because Jane didn’t get to perform with her?

Joan ended up being absorbed in conspiracies internally the whole time she was on stage, unwillingly. She spoke her lines with conviction, and her singing didn’t falter, but she was still thinking. Even during the finale of the opening number, where she had to hold what she knew was the Note of Death, she still had these thoughts in her mind. She barely even had time to gauge the audience’s reaction to her costume change or see if they realized who she was before the song ended and the dialogue began. Joan zoned out for most of it, reciting the lines she knew, until-

“Are we going to have a problem?” Cleves’ bold statement cut through the silence. Joan realized this was the start of the second number, and she swallowed thickly when she saw a menacing smirk stretch on Kitty’s lips. Her behavior the whole time had been off, and this was a song in which the entire aim was to push Joan around and show a display of power.

Cleves continued, saying her lines, which were laced with spite and malice towards a teenage girl who was just trying to save the show they’d worked so hard on. Joan didn’t have to do much other than accept the mild shoves off of the three Heathers; Cleves grinning, Anne smiling apologetically, and Kitty pushing Joan so hard she was sure there would be bruises. The blonde could not wait for the song to end, and as soon as she heard the roaring applause, she wanted so badly to make a run for it and escape the abuse but knew she had to stay. She had to prove that she was worthy of being there. 

That she was just as good as them, if not better.

“You shouldn’t have bowed down to the swatch dogs and the diet coke heads. They’re going to crush that girl.” A deep, honey-slicked voice broke through after the applause died down.

Joan turned reluctantly and saw Cathy sitting on the part of the set made to be a staircase in her character’s trademarked trench coat, looking through her fringe at her. Some of the anxiety eased its process of clawing up Joan’s insides when she saw a warm, comforting look flicker in Cathy’s eyes.

“I’m sorry, what?”

Maybe it wouldn’t be as bad as she thought after all. Cathy was there with her, and even with her face twisted into one of cunning and deception, Joan felt much more comfortable with her nearby. 

And then, something happened.

“I didn’t catch your name,” She said further in the first scene with Cathy.

“I didn’t throw it.” Cathy retorted smoothly, and Joan could see why Anne was so in love with her. 

Joan giggled giddily, tugging on her sleeves in a way she thinks a girl would react to such a comment, and was surprised to hear the audience erupt into coos and awws. She blinked at them in delight.

They thought…she was cute.

Nobody ever thought she was cute, certainly not hundreds of people watching her on a stage.

Happiness welled up from within her. She could feel her doubt starting to melt away even more. 

They _liked her_.

Joan couldn’t lie. Seeing Cathy fake fight two men in slow motion was something she was prepared for but didn’t expect it to be as amazing as it was. Joan wasn’t really paying attention to the scenes that didn’t concern her, conserving her efforts for when she was needed, but…damn. Cathy didn’t have to go off that hard, but she did anyway. 

As Joan sang and maneuvered around the stage in the way she’d seen Jane do countless times before, she could barely even look at Cathy as she had to touch the woman. She attempted to keep her touches brief, but she really wanted the audience to like her, so she committed to the role of a lovestruck teenage girl. She had to remind herself that it was just the choreography, that it was just a stupid, kinda boring song, that Anne definitely wouldn’t think she was stealing her girlfriend.

Most of the beginning parts passed by in a blur. Whenever Joan was rarely offstage, she was wiping sweat off of her face as best as she could without ruining her makeup, taking quick sips of water, and attempting to catch whatever breath she could. When she was onstage, she spoke with as much effort as she could, and whenever Cathy was with her, she always felt her voice rise with more power and conviction. It was noticeable, she realized when she caught glimpses of the impressed audience through the blinding glare of the stage lights.

Big Fun soon came along, and Joan danced with more energy than she ever had in her entire life. She was so wrapped up in singing and laughing and smiling that she didn’t even worry about the possibility that there may have been poison in the shot glass she had to drink from (there wasn’t, but you never know). She had never felt so free before, so young and careless and happy.

This— _this_ was what freedom was like.

She never wanted it to end. She could perform Big Fun for a hundred years and not be tired of how bouncy and crude she got to be. But alas, the party scene soon came to a close, and her anxiety made itself known again deep in the pit of her stomach.

Dead Girl Walking was about as awkward as she expected. She stammered over her lines for the first time, but managed to keep her singing voice steady enough to not completely crack beneath the sudden surge of stress and embarrassment, and was suddenly glad her mother didn’t come because she surely wouldn’t have liked seeing her up there straddling another woman.

Cathy was gentle like she promised, and Joan was so very relieved. But still, she wasn’t sure how she felt about losing her first kiss to another female who was already taken by someone and quite a bit older than her.

But it was over now! It was okay! Dead Girl Walking was over, and Joan didn’t throw up all over Cathy from the anxiety. Although she really, really felt like she was going to near the end, but not anymore!! In fact, she felt pretty damn proud of herself.

Me Inside Of Me and Blue came and went without a problem, although Joan swore Kitty was a lot meaner than her character was meant to be during Blue. The younger girl looked at her as if she actually wanted her to get sexually harassed by a group of guys, which made Joan give her an appalled look. She forgot about that too, though, and moved on. She shouldn’t think so much about someone who hated her guts.

Our Love Is God was frighteningly beautiful. Joan wasn’t expecting her and Cathy’s voices to go so well together, but she found herself being entranced to their harmony. The audience was into it, too. Joan swore she could hear them cooing in awe.

Joan couldn’t help but squeal in glee when she got offstage for intermission. She was so wrapped up in celebrating her current success that she almost forgot to rehydrate until Cathy pushed a water bottle into her hand with a laugh.

“I know you’re happy, sweetie,” She said, “but you need to drink some water.”

“Water!” Joan yelped. “Right! Got it!” She quickly got to guzzling down the contents of the bottle.

“Not that fast—!!”

Joan and Cathy both giggled. Out of the corner of her eye, Joan noticed Maggie roll her eyes, but Kitty continued to just stare at her with a weird look in her eye. When Maggie saw that Joan had noticed, she nudged her friend and they both bustled off further into the backstage area. Joan shrugged it off.

“Hey, Joan,” Said a voice Joan didn’t recognize. “You’re, um, doing really good!”

Joan turned around and saw three stagehands standing there looking sheepish. She blinked at them.

“Oh- thank you!” She smiled at them, and they all seemed surprised that she did. Then, they smiled back.

“Yeah, your vocal range?” Another piped up. “It puts Seymour to SHAME!”

Joan blushed. “Don’t say that! She’s really good!”

“But not as good as you!” The third said. “How did you get cast as the backup understudy? YOU should be in the all-star cast. YOU should be the main Veronica Sawyer.”

Joan felt dizzy from the flattery. She knew these three were trying to win her over with compliments because they were ashamed of their treatment of her, but she didn’t really care. She craved it. She wanted their uplifting words so badly that she didn’t even care if they apologized or not.

“Thank you,” She said again modestly. “Really. That means so much to me.”

They grin at her brightly. One looked over his shoulder when a name was called.

“Oh, gotta run,” He said. “Come on, guys. Break a leg for act two, Joan! Can’t wait to hear you sing again!”

“Did you see that?!” Joan cried to Cathy once they were gone, shaking her co-star. “Did you? They were praising me! They said I was better than Jane! ME!!”

“I’m so happy for you, sweetheart!” Cathy said. “I’m sure Anne is, too.”

“Where is Anne?” Joan asked. She turned to a stagehand. “Hey, do you know where Anne is? I haven’t seen her at all during intermission.”

The stagehand looked a tad uncomfortable, but not because of Joan’s presence. He fidgeted for a moment, then said, “There was…an incident. Anne had to be thrown out. Her understudy is finishing up the show.”

Cathy and Joan’s eyes widened. 

“What?” Joan said.

“Thrown out?!” Cathy shrilled at the same time. “What did she do?!”

( “I should have known,” Aragon snarled, dragging the green-clad woman out the back door. “I should have known you were with Jane!”

“No!” Anne cried, struggling fiercely. “Catalina, you don’t understand! There’s a-!!”

“I don’t want to hear it!” Aragon roared. She shoved open the door and threw Anne to the ground. The bright moonlight illuminated her horrified facial features. “You are SICK, Anne Boleyn! You and Jane Seymour and your little weasel of a cousin! I knew you were going to try and ruin this for Joan! Well, I’m not going to let you. I hope the rats eat you out here!”

“No, Catalina, wait!!” 

But it was too late. Aragon slammed the door shut and promptly locked it. Anne slammed on it and yelled as loud as she could, but nobody opened up. Every other entrance was locked and guarded by someone, too. 

Anne sunk to the cold asphalt, tried not to cry, and prayed to God that she hadn’t actually seen Jane Seymour and her boyfriend up in the rafters with a bucket of _something_ poised over the stage.)

“I don’t know,” The stagehand said with a useless shrug of his shoulders. “I just heard them screaming. Catalina seemed really mad about something.”

“Goddamnit, Anne,” Cathy muttered, then caught the anxious look on Joan’s face. She gently touched her shoulder. “It’s okay, sweetie. It’ll be just fine. I’ll give Anne a very stern talking to tonight.”

Joan nodded, even cracking a small smile.

It wasn’t long before act two began and Joan had to enter again. She nearly burst into tears when the audience cheered and clapped when she stepped into view and she tried very hard not to beam at all of them.

They liked her. They really, really liked her!

My Dead Gay Son had Joan giggling throughout its entirety. At the same time, as she sang along and danced to the silly lyrics, a part of her wished her mother was like the dads in the song. She wished that she was as open-minded and accepting and less overzealous.

She wished she was there.

Bernadette would have been so proud of her, she just knows it. She would have been proud of her vocal range during Seventeen and funny, but on-point dancing in Shine A Light and rebellious voice when she yelled at Maggie after that song, which felt AMAZING, by the way. Especially when she actually saw the girl reel back slightly at her venom-flecked words. And then, there was the scene that sent Joan on cloud nine.

“No! Stop!!” Joan yelled, darting across the stage and barreling into Kitty with enough force to actually send her sprawling to the ground. Watching the younger girl squirm on her side like a flipped-over turtle wasn’t something that Joan had always wanted to see until that moment.

“Suicide is supposed to be a private thing!” Kitty whined in a woebegone voice, but her eyes reflected great hatred for Joan. Definitely not a good acting choice in Joan’s opinion- the front row was gonna notice that and be confused.

“Throwing your life away to be another statistic in the USA Today is probably the least private thing I can think of,” Joan rattled off perfectly.

“But what about Heather? And Ram and Kurt?” Kitty replied.

“If everyone jumped off a bridge, young lady, would you?” 

“Probably,” Kitty mumbled, and then gave Joan a fierce look that said, “But not without pushing you off first.”

“If you were happy every day of your life, you wouldn’t be human. You’d be a gameshow host.” Joan told her, letting her gaze slide off of her. There was something very satisfying about the look of powerless fury on Kitty’s face, and she soon realized it was because Kitty couldn’t do anything to her onstage. She couldn’t harm Joan, or else she would ruin the show and be hated, too.

Kitty spits the fake pills (which were really just TicTacs) into her hands. Joan was sure she was grinding her teeth when she said, “Thanks for coming after me.”

And then they had to hug. Which was supremely awkward. And Kitty dug her claw-like manicured nails into Joan’s back, but Joan got to discreetly pull some of her hair, so it was okay. And it still didn’t ruin Joan’s good mood that lingered for the remainder of the show.

She was amazing. She was talented. She was a star. 

The audience liked her, Cathy and Aragon and Anne liked her, some of the crew were even starting to like her, too. 

Never before had Joan heard so many people cheering. Cheering for her.

When the lights came back on after the final number and cast members went out one by one for curtain call, the audience screamed and clapped so loudly. The background characters went first, then the parent characters, then the teachers, then the Heathers, followed by JD, and finally, it was Joan’s turn. 

She went out rather timidly at first, instinctively being way too modest, but then the audience _shrieked_ , and she lurched into a gleeful run. 

She stood beside Cathy on the apron and Cathy gestured grandly to her, which made the audience scream again. Joan almost crumpled to her knees and thanked THEM when she bowed, but she managed to remain on her feet. She smiled at everyone watching, finally able to see them with the lights dimmed, and she hadn’t realized how many people there really were. And they all adored her performance. They were even on their feet cheering! For her! She got a standing ovation!! 

She squealed and leaped into Cathy’s arms, who laughed and twirled her around happily.

“You did amazing, sweetheart!!” Cathy cried over the ending music. The others were dancing behind them blissfully. Joan started to dance a little, too, kicking her feet and swaying once she was released. Cathy laughed and brushed her cheek affectionately. “Look at you. You little bundle of energy.”

Joan giggled, blushing harder. “Thank you, Cathy.”

They clasped their hands together and did a final bow. The audience howled, and Joan smiled wider than she ever had in her entire life, for once not gripped by the fingers of anxiety that were usually wrung so tightly around her throat. She was free.

And then there was a hushed bark from above, a clatter of metal and creaking of rope, and the doors to the booth burst open just in time for Aragon and the other crew members to step out and watch as a bucket of blood dumped out right over Joan’s head.

Silence. 

One by one, the clapping stopped, the cheering died off, and the smiles fell until the only sound was the creak of the rope the bucket was attached to and the splattering of blood on the floor. Nobody moved, nobody breathed, nobody spoke a word.

But then Joan began to tremble.

And then cry.

And then scream.

She screamed a horrible, nightmare-haunting scream that reverberated throughout the auditorium and jammed itself into the ears of the audience and cast alike. She brought up her shaking hands to hug her blood-soaked body tightly, continuing to shriek and keen as she did so. Blood was covering her entire frame, sliding down her face and mingling with tears, soaking into her hair, washing her blue costume an awful shade of purple-red. She screamed and screamed and screamed, staring helplessly out at the audience. There, she saw a young boy clutching onto his mother and father with fear in his eyes. She saw a group of teenage boys, but none of them were laughing like their normal punk demeanor would imply they would do. She saw two girls clinging to each other, shaking. She saw another girl with her phone poised on her bloodied body. She saw Aragon among the crowd, staring up at her with a terrified expression, a hand clamped over her mouth. And Joan stared back at her—back at all of them—and sobbed, soaked to the bone by blood and misery and humiliation.

And then the video of Joan in the showers, completely naked, bleeding all over herself, crying in confusion flickered on the background sike. And people started _laughing_. Not everyone, but several cast members, Kitty and Maggie being the loudest, and dozens of other cruel audience members.

“WHAT THE HELL?!” Cathy roared in outrage. She was the first to snap out of her frightened trance and began to twist around, looking for the culprit. “WHO DID THIS?!”

She found them in the wings: Jane Seymour and Henry Tudor, limbs entwined, cackling, disgustingly gleeful expressions on their faces.

“JA—!!” Cathy went to scream at them, went to call attention to who had done such a thing, went to attack them both, but she was cut off by a creaking from up above and something heavy and hard slamming into her head.

The metal bucket fell first, and then Cathy, whose legs crumpled horribly inward beneath the weight of her body. She collapsed into an awkward sprawled position, and Joan darted down to her side in an instant, crying out her name. Joan shook the woman vigorously, begging her to wake up, but Cathy didn’t budge. A moment later, Joan sat back rigidly because her hands were covered in blood so dark it looked black. Blood that wasn’t there before.

There was a gash on the top of Cathy’s head, a crack in her skull, and some of her brains were pouring out onto the stage.

Joan noticed this, along with a flash of fragmented white bone, but, this time, she did not scream. Or cry out. Or whimper.

Instead, she sat there, staring levelly at Cathy’s ruined head with both hands laid flat on the trench coat that was slightly spattered with blood from the bucket. She was still crying, but something was different. A steely glint had entered her eyes and there was a strange, off tightness to the way she was sitting now.

There was no ripple or twitch that went over her face or any other real indication that there was anything wrong. It had just suddenly stopped weeping and gone very, very still.

Sometimes people did crazy things when they were worked up. There was always some dumb high school student who would think it was a good idea to threaten a bigger, much tougher upperclassmen just to show everyone how masculine he was or some poor sucker that got cocky enough to hit on that hourglass-figured woman in the tiny dress, only to find out that she was happily married to someone named Biff, who had biceps the size of small dogs and also happened to be standing right behind them.

That was normal. That was just people for you. Everyone had seen or heard of all of that and more.

But sometimes, you’d get the individual who had something else wrong with them. Something deep inside that was there way before even a bout of stubbornness flicked on their brain. They’d look perfectly normal because whatever was wrong with them, it was the sort of break that you could patch up with metaphorical glue and hide from the world as long as you had the presence of mind to do so. Then the anger or misery or pain melted that glue away and split the break wide open and let all those bad things that were locked away come boiling out like pus from an abscess.

And, out of nowhere, that same calm, smiley person who you were just talking to about the Red Sox-Yankees game could suddenly be pressing your head into the bar with their elbow in your throat, eyes alight with hysterical rage, all because you’d done something as small as accidentally scoot your drink a little too far in their direction.

And right now, somewhere behind those horrifyingly blank silver eyes and that tight frown, the bucket of blood and Cathy’s cracked open head had made those last strands of glue stretch out and break, like the little filament in a light bulb fraying and making that final _ping!_ sound before it snapped and burned the bulb out.

There was something very, _very_ wrong with Joan Meutas.

And she was a walking nightmare that nobody had seen coming.

An uncomfortable silence had descended on the audience and cast. They had all sensed it, too, that weird light that had turned on behind the blood-soaked girl’s eyes like the tiny, silvery start of a fire, flickering silently in the corner of a room.

Joan stood very, very slowly as if she were underwater, or her muscles were buckled into place. Her movements weren’t right- they were too twitchy and abrupt like a robot with rusted limbs. And her eyes—god, her eyes… They were wider than humanly possible.

She stood, dripping with blood, tears still streaming down her cheeks, and stared out at the audience. What they didn’t know was that she was sending her powers through the theater, locking every possible exit securely from the outside to ensure that none of them got out—especially those who were on the stage with her.

Her head jerked to the side, and a giant gash was opened up in the wall. The people shrieked in fright, and those who were suddenly lifted into the air screamed even louder. Judgment was nigh, and Joan was reading their souls. Those who were worthy of life, like the children and anyone who didn’t laugh at her, were thrown out of the hole in the wall. But everyone else, the girl still recording her, the boy who she could see had knocked up his girlfriend and dumped her once he found out, the man in the second row who had been in a hit-and-run, everyone onstage, even if they had been nice to her that day, were locked inside. She closed the hole, not caring if families had been separated (like the mother who wailed for her husband and the baby that she forced him to have, which both had been thrown out), switched a spotlight on her to a dark shade of crimson, and prepared for purification.

Starting with the ringleaders of her torture.

Kitty and Maggie screamed as an invisible force dragged them up to the front of the stage and made them kneel before the crowd. 

“Please, please stop, Joan!” Kitty whimpered.

“We’re sorry!” Maggie added fearfully.

Joan didn’t answer them. She didn’t even look at them, rather stared at the very edge of the stage with her impossibly wide eyes and those wretched sick lights flickering behind them, and that alone was enough to tell Kitty and Maggie that they were getting no mercy. But still, they begged.

“We’re sorry!” Kitty said, now sobbing. “We’re so, so, so sorry! Please don’t hurt us!”

“We’ll do anything!!” Maggie wheedled.

Joan glanced at her, then Kitty, and then Kitty’s hands began to raise against her will. Joan looked back down at the floor as Kitty started to squeal in fright and cry harder.

“What are you doing to her?!” Maggie cried.

“Please, please stop!!” Kitty howled at the same time. Her manicured yellow nails rested against her belly and pressed inwards, guided along by inhuman telekinetic strength. “Stop, stop, stop— no!!!”

With a sickening squelch, Kitty’s fingers breached her flesh and sunk knuckle-deep into her stomach. She threw her head back and screeched in pain, which became more and more gargled as her nails cut the gash open wider.

“Mummy! Daddy!” She suddenly sobbed to the audience, blood pouring out of her mouth. “Help me, daddy! Mummy, please!”

Joan stiffened, and Kitty’s hands froze their process of emaciating. Kitty took a deep, sharp breath that was thick with blood, coughed a few times, then looked up at Joan, whimpering. Joan looked down at her, too, and it was only when she turned to look at the frozen video of her naked on the sike that Kitty truly realized all she had done to this girl.

“I’m sorry,” Kitty whispered.

Joan stared at her for a long time, then closed her eyes, and Kitty ripped out her small intestines.

The audience _shrieked_. Horror rolled off of them in waves that crashed against the stage like a restless ocean during a thunderstorm. The tide of their terror mingled with Kitty’s blood, which was spilling out all over the apron as she fervently pulled out all her organs and showed everyone what she was truly like on the inside. 

Joan didn’t wait to watch her finish. She turned to Maggie with a wry expression and made her lift her hands to her mouth. Maggie shook her head and whimpered, her eyes becoming round holes of horror as she reached inside, grabbed her tongue, and pulled it out. 

Her body fell before Kitty’s did. It tumbled limply off the stage while she was still gagging and gargling; Joan was leaving her to choke to death—to _suffer_ before she finally died.

Suddenly, from behind, Cleves lunged forward with her fists raised, screaming in fury. Joan didn’t even look at her as she wrenched an overhead pipe loose from up above and plunged it into her chest, pinning her to the ground.

Several actors began to scatter. The pipe flew around and jammed itself through the spot that connected the victim’s jaw to her neck. It went all the way through and left her nearly decapitated, spasming wildly on the ground before death overcame her and she stilled. A moment later, the pipe spun and sailed straight through a man’s stomach. 

By this point, pandemonium has erupted throughout the entire theater. Everyone was running around screaming, panicking, crying. They’re trampling over each other like caged cattle—and they very well may have been, because they were all going to burn like the filthy cows they all were.

Sparks shot out from wires and spotlights overhead. Fragments of tech equipment exploded everywhere and tongues of fire curled outward hungrily, roaring like angry dragons. Kitty finally teetered off of the stage, dead and very, very empty. The curtains went up in flames. A chunk of a spotlight slammed into a man’s face and killed him instantly. 

Fire. Everywhere. The destruction was instantaneous.

Joan stood amid the havoc as flames billowed out across the theater, consuming everything in its path. A few daring plumes attempted to wrap around her and devour her flesh, but it didn’t get very close before she pushed it away. It sizzled and hissed at her in a disgruntled manner, then sprinted off in another direction, giving up. Joan huffed in through her nose and then breathed in the acrid scent of burning flesh and smoke, but she willed herself not to cough. She would not show any sign of weakness, even to the lack of air around her. 

And then, there was a scream.

“JOAN!!!!”

Joan jolted and stared out at the crowd in horror. There, she found Aragon, bleeding and bruised from being trampled, struggling forward. Towards her. 

Aragon was coming to her. 

Joan watched with wide eyes as Aragon pushed through screaming people and burning people and dead people, through wreckage and flames, just to get to her. 

Aragon stepped into a pool of Maggie’s blood and reached out a hand, which was speckled with burns from flying ashes and sparks. Joan stepped back, her foot squelching under what she thinks is Kitty’s kidney, but Aragon persisted, reaching out further, even if it meant pressing up against the pools of blood and organs on the stage. After a moment of resistance, realizing that she wouldn’t be hurt, Joan crouched on her weak knees and took Aragon’s hand.

“Please,” Aragon whispered, squeezing tightly. “Please stop.”

Joan looked into her eyes and, despite the things she’s just done, still saw so much love inside of Aragon. Love she has for her. Love she wanted to shower her with. Love that could always be hers if she just stopped.

Joan smiled tightly, painfully, lifted Aragon in the air, and threw her outside through a weak part of the wall. She’ll be burned and may have a few broken or at least cracked bones, but she’ll be alive. Joan patched up the hole her body made and then turned to the rest of her victims. 

The girl who had recorded her when she got dumped with blood stumbled to the ground, her limbs turning crisp and black. Behind her, several people were screaming as their hair and clothing caught fire. Someone howled in pain from within a larger portion of the fire. A few people that were so charred that their gender couldn’t even be determined lay half in, half out of the flames, gasping as dark smoke filled their lungs. Dozens more were already dead in various stages of burning. And Joan watched them all in silence before turning and walking through the flames engulfed in the backstage, slipping out the back door.

The moon was high in the sky, glowing nearly as bright as the inferno that was the theater. Joan avoided the police and firefighters she could hear from the front by using the back alley and exiting out onto a dark, abandoned street. 

She could start to feel the burns she got from the fire more and more as she staggered home. Each step brought starbursts of agony sparking through her flesh, flashing bright colors behind her eyelids. She tried not to keep her eyes closed for too long.

Up ahead, a fancy red car pulled around the corner. The headlights glared against her, causing the blood drenching her body to glimmer like melted rubies. She narrowed her eyes. The car sped up, and she could soon see Jane and Henry through the windshield.

“Fucking run her over, Henry!” Jane was screeching like a madwoman. 

Henry pressed on the gas. Joan stopped in the middle of the street and stared at him. The car began to wobble treacherously. Henry grunted in pain.

“Henry? What the fuck?” Jane cried. A moment later, she watched as her boyfriend’s head imploded and showered her face in blood, flesh, bones, and brains. She screamed.

Joan tilted her head slightly, catching the car before it could crash. She ripped Jane out of the car and threw her to the asphalt.

“You fucking monster!” Jane yelled. “You’re a fucking pig! What have you done?!”

Joan squinted at her, then jarred free any sharp objects she could locate on the car. They floated nearby, trained on Joan’s back.

“What have you done?” Jane whispered again, this time with growing terror in her voice. “TELL ME!! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?! Wh…where is Kitty?”

The impromptu knives pierced Jane’s flesh. Jane let out a gargled scream, blood splattering from her lips. Joan watched her silently, then began walking away.

“Joan!” Jane cried, feeling her guts leaking out from several different holes. “Joan, don’t you fucking leave me here!”

Joan kept walking, deaf to her words.

“Joan!” Jane yelled again, this time with a voice that was thick with tears. “Joan, p-please, don’t leave me! I don’t want to die! Please, I’m sorry! Please don’t let me die!”

Joan doesn’t stop.

“Joan?! JOAN!!!”

———

The house was deserted, lit only by moonlight filtering in through the windows and a few flickering candles. Joan trudged up the staircase, dripping blood as she went, and careened into the bathroom. She hauled her aching body over the edge, still in her Veronica Sawyer costume, and collapsed into the bathtub before it was even full with an inch of water. She remained curled up in a ball until it became too deep for her head to stay above the surface comfortably and she had to stretch out. She watched as the water around her turned a reddish-pink color with glazed, hollow grey eyes.

The tears came fast. She cried silently, not making a peep, not even shuddering. Her shoulders didn’t even shake. She just laid back in the tub and stared up at the dark ceiling, weeping in the dark bathroom. 

She wasn’t sure how much time passed after that, but she eventually heard the creak of the old floorboards in the hallway. A moment later, her mother appeared, illuminated by musty shafts of moonlight from the small bathroom window. 

“Mama,” Joan croaked. Her voice was so weak.

Bernadette approached slowly, but her fear of being attacked diminished when she realized that Joan was in no condition to attack anyone. She just lay there in the tub, shivering and crying, surrounded by bloody water. Tears streamed down her ashen face, which was still drenched in coagulated streams of blood. There were yellow-brown, painful-looking burns spattered on her shoulders, neck, and upper back. 

She looked utterly pathetic. 

Bernadette crouched beside the bathtub. Joan strained her burned neck to look at her.

“What happened at the—” The pitiful thing couldn’t even form a complete, coherent sentence. Her voice died off halfway through and didn’t come back.

“The Lord says thou shalt not suffer,” Bernadette said.

“They called me—monster—mama,” Joan said with great difficulty, but even then her sentence was choppy and missing words that had been so mumbled that they were indescribable. She was so disorientated and out of it that she looked close to near unconsciousness.

And then she noticed the bloody water she was submerged in. 

It was like a switch being flipped. Only then did Joan seem to realize what had been and still was coating her body. She let out a strangled, high-pitch whimper and looked helplessly up at her mother.

“P-please t-tell me what h-h-happened,” She begged, fresh tears rolling down her cheeks.

“You were weak, Joan.” Bernadette said, plucking away a bloody lock of hair that had been glued to her daughter’s face. “I told you your sin would find you.”

“I can’t remem—remember.” Joan squeaked out. 

But she could, clear as day could she remember killing all those people. She was just too dazed to firmly grasp the situation.

“H-h-help me.” She begged. “Mama—help me.”

Bernadette looked down at her for a long time, studying her bloody child, then said, “Let’s pray.” She cupped Joan’s wet face. “Say it with me: lay me down to sleep.”

“L-lay me—lay me d-d-down to—sleep,” Joan choked out.

“And pray the Lord,” Bernadette said. 

“A-and pray—the Lord—my s-soul—” Joan struggled. “My soul—to kee—” The rest of the word was gargled when she was shoved roughly under the bloody bathwater.

Joan’s reaction was instant. She began to squirm and struggle, splashing water out everywhere, but she was much too weak and small and frail to fight her mother, who held her down firmly. But still, she screamed and she cried and she swallowed down bloody water until she couldn’t anymore.

Joan’s thin little body began to still in the tub, but her mind still flickered. Blackness was glazing over her head, tugging her into a peaceful void, and she leaned into its serene coldness. But not without breaking the window and sending a jagged piece of glass straight into her mother’s throat.

———

After watching the theater go up in flames and losing Cathy, Anne didn’t think the day could get any worse. But then she drove to the Meutas house and found the mother with her neck cut open wide and the daughter submerged in a bathtub full of bloody water and things turned to hell. 

Anne lurched forward with a cry of shock, pulling Joan out of the tub. She pressed her ear against the girl’s chest and barely heard the flutter of a heartbeat. What she could hear, though, was the sloshing of water inside of lungs.

“God, please do NOT let her die,” Anne muttered, her nails digging into Joan’s forearms. “Please don’t let her die.”

She released her vice grip, and jewels of blood drops bloom from the contact area. That’s the least of her concerns, though.

Her fingers move to pinch shut Joan’s nose and open her mouth. Remembering very vague lessons of revival, Anne began to give the tiny girl CPR.

The first attempt did not work.

“If you die- if you _abandon me too_ \- I WON’T forgive you! You hear me? I won’t!”

Joan’s features remain horribly pale.

Anne is shaking all over. The thought of this little girl dying is utterly terrifying.

She tried again, forcing air into Joan’s lungs and pressing on her chest.

Nothing. 

Joan doesn’t stir.

“Please, Joan, please just breathe. Please come back, I-I need you!”

Once more.

Nothing.

Tears are gathering in Anne’s eyes.

“Breathe, damnit! Don’t you dare die on me! Do you hear me? Listen to me, young lady! JOAN!!!”

Anne’s fists come down on Joan’s stomach, and water is spit up into her face.

Anne fell backward, clawing at her eyes as if she thought she had been sprayed with acid. In front of her, she can hear horrid coughing and wheezing, but also _breathing_. Joan was _breathing_ and _alive_.

Alive and very, very shaken.

“MAMA!!!”

Joan threw herself at her mother’s corpse before she had even fully recovered from her coughing fit. She smothered her face against her mother’s chest, and it came back red with fresh blood when she pulled away.

“Why?!” She shrieked at Anne. “Why did you bring me back?!” 

“You were going to die!” Anne said.

“Maybe I WANTED to die! Have you ever thought about that?!” Joan held tighter to her mother, weeping. “Why couldn’t you just leave me alone? N-none of this would have happened…”

“I—” Anne faltered. “I’m sorry.”

Joan’s body shuddered and she grit her teeth. An unseen force coiled around Anne’s body and suspended her in the air tightly. It felt as if the atmosphere was crushing her.

“Look what you turned me into.” Joan whispered.

“P-please don’t hurt me,” Anne begged.

“Why not?” Joan asked, a pained smile tugging on her bloody lips. Tears start to roll down her cheeks again. “I’ve been hurt my whole life.”

Anne stared at her in horror, realizing it was true. The girl before her had been hurt more than she ever had been in her entire twenty-seven years of life.

How has Joan lived with so much pain inflicted on her tiny little body?

Joan bent over her mother and whimpered against her bloody shirt. She kept nuzzling into her chest, keening softly, and then looking up at her mother’s face, as if she was hoping her affection and presence would wake her up. When it didn’t work, she tried again and again and again, and it was the saddest thing Anne had ever seen in her entire life.

“I killed my mama,” Joan whispered. “I want her back…”

It was awful to see a child bound to such a witch of a woman. Anne knew this lady had hurt Joan severely, and yet Joan still loved her. 

A crack suddenly zigzagged through the wall. Anne managed to jerk her head around to see several other cobwebs of crevices splinter through the walls around them. The earth began to shake without stopping, a continuous tremor that jarred Anne’s teeth in her head and made her feel as though the floor was about to drop out from under all of them.

“Joan!” Anne cried. “We need to leave!”

“No,” Joan held firmly to her mother’s corpse, curling against it loyally. “I’m not leaving.”

“Joan, please!” Anne begged. “I can’t lose you, too!”

That made Joan look up.

For just a moment, Anne felt a glimmer of hope when Joan sat up slightly, but then she looked back down at the corpse and the costume she was still wearing and crumpled right back into a fetal position. Anne then realized that she didn’t just want to stay with her dead mother—she was immobilized by pain and grief and trauma.

Joan wanted to die.

And there was nothing Anne could do to stop her.

“Goodbye, Miss Anne,” Joan whispered, smiling weakly up at her. She was curled into a tiny ball under her mother’s arm with her head on her chest. The tears running down her cheeks didn’t seem to be stopping anytime soon. “I’m glad—I got to know you.”

And then, Anne is thrown out through the wall by a psionic blast.

She tumbled, rolled, spun through the air in a deathly freefall before she’s caught again and gently set on the grass. She bolted up instantly and watched through her tears as the house was swallowed by the earth, devouring the walls and the floors and the furniture and that awful crucifix Anne had seen in the kitchen until there was nothing left to mourn. 

Joan Meutas was dead, and no amount of praying would bring her back.


	6. Epilogue

“What’s mama doing?” The auburn-haired six-year-old asked, peeking out from the backseat. Her red-headed toddler sister burbled in curiosity at her side. “Where ARE we?”

“Just…a place, Mary,” Aragon answered, gripping the steering wheel tightly. She tried to take deep breaths, but she still began to scratch at the pale burn scar that wrapped around her upper back and shoulders- a constant reminder of that night. She could feel tears start to prick in her eyes like hot needles. She didn’t know how Anne was out there.

It’s been five years since the West End Massacre, and Anne and Aragon alike were still both reeling. One hundred and twenty-seven people had died that night by the wrath of a tortured child. And, after a long time away from London, they finally decided to visit the grave of that child.

“JOAN MEUTAS BURNS IN HELL” was scrawled across the tombstone in bright red spray paint. Anne read it over and over and over again, her nose twitching with disgust. She can feel her body shaking and she tried her best to stamp down her nerves. She’s thirty-two, goddamnit, and it was _five years ago_. So why was she still clinging to the memories of a girl she knew for six days?

She set down the bouquet of white roses at the grave and stepped back. Standing on the property of the old Meutas house felt wrong like Bernadette Meutas might claw her way out of the dirt and pull her down to hell. She shivered, then bowed her head, trying to pray, but prayers only made her feel sick nowadays. 

“Damnit,” She sighed, rubbing her face slowly. When she looked up again, she saw something in the nearby trees…a raven with patchy plumage that reflected rainbows across the black feathers in the sunlight. It tipped its head at her, cawed once, then flew off in a flurry of sparkling ebony.

“I have daughters now,” Anne whispered. “If you care. Probably not, but…” She kicked a pebble. “Their names are Mary and Elizabeth. They’re wonderful. I love them with all my heart.” She paused, her voice softening. “I miss you.”

A tear rolled down her cheek. And then another. And then another.

“Catalina does, too.”

Another beat of silence. Anne sniffled, trying to wipe away any more tears, but they just kept coming.

“I’m sorry we didn’t visit you. You must be so lonely.”

Silence. In her head, Anne begged, _Please. Please say something. Move something. Show me that you’re still there._

“I miss you,” She whispered again. 

When she got no reply of any kind, she hiccuped. Which built into a whimper. Which built into a sob. 

Anne began to sob, sinking to her knees. She dug her fingers into the gravel and rubble surrounding the vandalized tombstone, relishing the feeling of flint and rocks scraping against her skin. She shivered and shuddered, unable to calm herself because waves upon waves of bottled-up grief and guilt were slamming against her at max force. All she could do was kneel there and cry and cry and cry until she couldn’t cry anymore and just gasped pathetically.

“You were amazing, Joan, I hope you know that.” Anne choked out. “You truly were a blessing. And I am so honored I got to meet you, you wonderful, sweet girl.”

She sniffled and wiped her stinging eyes. She tried her best to smile as if the girl were actually there with her.

“I have to go now,” She said. “Goodbye, Joan.”

“Mummy’s coming back!” Mary yipped excitedly from inside the car as Anne walked back over.

“Mama bwought fweind!” Elizabeth babbled.

Aragon tensed. Anne froze. And they both whipped around to the tombstone and the squishy parrot toy that hadn’t been there before.


End file.
